


Pick It All Up

by thepinupchemist



Series: Pick It All Up 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Amputee!Cas, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaptered, Gratuitous amounts of angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Military Backstory, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past physical abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Slow Build, Soldiers, Veteran!Cas, prostitute!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 126,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Army veteran Castiel Novak is a wreck after his tour in Afghanistan, brought home to his brother's apartment in Lawrence, Kansas with scars both mental and physical. He copes poorly, and during one night of bad decision making, meets somebody just as much of a disaster as he is -- a prostitute named Dean Winchester. And suddenly, two damaged men might not be as irreparable as they believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Fast They Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title comes from the song Medicine by Daughter.
> 
> Some warnings: PTSD, depression, low self-worth, body issues. If any different warnings apply for new chapters I will add them to the notes at the beginning of the chapter in question.

**Chapter Track: Biting Down – Lorde**

**_How Fast They Fall Apart_  
**

****

**  
**(Banner by[shinzz1](http://shinzz1.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) 

 

Fire. So much fire. Flames bigger than he’d ever seen before, towering high and belching black smoke into the desert air, and the screams, oh God, the screams. He could hear the screams of the soldiers the flames consumed, echoing in his ears as he ran, ran so fast, so scared, lungs burning.

Explosion.

Castiel felt the ground shift like a rug ripped out from under his feet and tumbled down, down, down.

And then the pain, the white hot pain, so fierce he went numb, started to choke, and –

“Cas!”

Castiel shoots into a sitting position and sees Gabe hovering over him. He’s on the couch. He must have dozed off and then – nightmares. Of course. Just nightmares. Nothing more than that.

“You okay, bro?” Gabriel asks.

Cas shifts his leg over the side of the couch and shakes his head, smearing his hands over his face and through his hair. He fumbles for his prosthetic as Gabe looks on, concerned, and pulls his prosthetic paraphernalia to press his twisted-up, ugly stump of a right leg into the fake. God, he’s a wreck.

He’s been home nearly four months already, and he’s still so fucked up. After that night, Cas doesn’t remember much. He remembers the hospital, a little bit, but he was on such an intricate cocktail of drugs that it’s difficult to discern which memories are real and which are figments of his imagination. He remembers every painstaking moment of physical therapy, though he wishes that he didn't. He knows that after a while, Gabe came to bring him home. He didn’t say anything, and still hasn’t, and that’s nice. That’s good.

Gabriel brought Castiel back to his apartment in Lawrence, Kansas, and beyond the occasional visit from Gabe’s “girlfriend-not-girlfriend” Kali, it’s been the kind of peace that Castiel needs. It’s not a huge city, but nothing to sniff at, either. Castiel has his own room in Gabe’s apartment, which thus far he’s kept mostly blank, except for the small collection of books that’s started to gather in the corner, stacked together on their sides because Cas doesn’t have a bookshelf, and doesn’t have a job to procure the money required to purchase one. He doesn’t want any Ikea monstrosity, he wants something real. Something loved.

He could apply for disability benefits, but he's too proud. 

Gabe gives him the money to purchase the books, probably because they’re the only things that Castiel has asked for since arriving here.

“I think I need to get out,” Cas says tersely.

“All right,” Gabriel says, but his brows are still pinched in concern.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that, Gabriel,” Castiel snaps. He hates that. He hates that look. Gabriel looks at him like that all the time now, when all Gabe does is smile otherwise.

“Cas,” Gabriel says softly, but Castiel ignores him. He laces his shoes over each foot, thick boots that hide any evidence of one of those feet not being real.

And he leaves. He doesn’t say goodbye to Gabriel, because Gabriel is on his nerves right now and he doesn’t feel like speaking to him. He doesn’t feel like speaking to anybody. He feels like losing his mind, so he doesn’t have to think about anything. Not the leg, or the burns, or the pained look on his brother’s face.

None of it.

Castiel has figured out the most efficient way to make it all go away. He ends up in the seedier part of Lawrence, where neon lights make the street glow a million different colors. He has his pick of strip clubs, which he likes, because he can look at good-looking people without having to speak to them, and he can drink and drink and just walk back to Gabe’s apartment when he can’t drink anymore. He could go to a bar or a dance club, but people want to talk to you there, and the thought of being spoken to spurs an itch under his skin that he hates, like spiders in his veins.

So he settles on his favorite place of business on this street, Elysium. It’s an ominous name for a strip club, he knows, but that’s why he went inside in the first place.

Inside, the club smells like sweat and tension, spilled beer and latex. A variety of people work the poles on stage, men and women alike, as well as the floor, serving food until midnight and alcohol until three in the morning. A blond waitress asks Castiel what he’d like when he takes a shadowed table in the far back of the club, and he orders vodka, straight. Some nights beer will do, others something mixed and silly-looking, but tonight, he needs to get to it.

“Coming right up, sweetheart,” she says, and smiles at him.

Castiel does not know if her smile is genuine, or if it is an intentional and disingenuous flirtation to acquire more tips. When he has his clothing on, he can pass as handsome. No one sees his scars or his leg. It’s just blue eyes and fine-tuned body to them, though his body is much less fine-tuned than it used to be.

The dancers undulate to a sticky beat that hurts Cas’ ears as the waitress retrieves his alcohol. He downs the shot in a second, relishing the burn, and orders a second.

Three vodka shots in, and he knows he can’t do this tonight. Sometimes he pays for private dances with a favored dancer, but not tonight, no. That won’t provide relief. It would only aggravate him.

So Castiel pays his tab and rushes out of the building, buzzed. He pats down his coat and extracts a half-smoked package of cigarettes. He used to think the habit nasty, but now they’re something good, something that settles his mind, if only for the space of a single lungful of smoke. His hands shake as he flicks a light to life and cups his hands against the sharp night breeze to light up.

One inhale.

Cas’ breath shakes on the way out.

“Hey, mister.”

Castiel jumps, and from the alleyway adjacent to Elysium, a boyish grin emerges.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the grin says, and it steps into the streetlight. A handsome young man stands around the grin, no older than his early twenties. He has green eyes and freckles, and looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Castiel assumes he means to request a cigarette.

But that isn’t what the boy says.

“You lookin’ for a good time tonight?” he asks.

Cas glances behind himself, for a moment convinced that this kid could not mean him. And then he looks back and, God help him, asks, “How much?”

“Depends on what you want,” answers the kid, “Don’t do bareback, but you could fuck me for a couple hundred.”

Castiel has several hundred dollars tucked in his wallet. It’s the last of his money.

So he lies, “Don’t have that much money.”

Castiel pretends he doesn’t see the flash of disappointment in those green eyes.

“How about – how about I suck you off, then?” the kid offers, “That’s fifty.”

Castiel gnaws on his lower lip. He shouldn’t do this. He knows better than this. Before he went overseas, he never would have done something like this. It’s insane. He has no idea what diseases this kid could have, or where he’s come from, or what his name is.

But Christ, the kid is so skinny. He looks bad enough that guilt bubbles up and aggravates the pool of bad, bad, bad feelings settled in his belly. So Castiel licks his lips and says, “How about this. I’ll give you seventy-five for the oral…if you tell me your name.”

This clearly is not what the boy is expecting, because he exclaims, “What? Why?”

Castiel gruffly responds, “Because I like to know where my dick has been. You can decide. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

The kid doesn’t say anything.

“All right,” Cas shrugs, and flicks his cigarette butt to the sidewalk, where he crushes it underneath his boot, “You have a nice night, then.” Castiel turns and starts heading toward Gabriel’s apartment.

“Dean!”

Cas turns, “What?”

“Dean,” the kid says, and jogs the few paces between them, “My name’s Dean, okay. My rules are you pay up front, you wear a condom, and you don’t leave any marks. Got it?”

“Yes,” Cas nods.

But when Dean closes his fingers around Cas’ wrist to tug him into the narrow alley, Cas says, “No.”

“No?” Dean echoes.

“Not here,” Castiel amends. The alleyway reeks of urine.

“Then where, hotshot?” Dean asks, and folds his arms.

“I – I’ll book a motel room,” Castiel decides, because he’s also decided that he wants this, “I value my privacy. I will abide by your rules.”

Dean eyes him, and for a moment, Castiel thinks he’s going to back out. He wouldn’t blame the boy. Cas is a strange man, a strange, older man, and if the look of Dean is any indication, he doesn’t lack street smarts. Dean rubs the back of his neck and blows all the air out of his lungs, “Okay. I can do that.”

They walk together to the motel across the street, a place called the Lucky Lady, whose neon sign depicts a happy woman in a red dress. Cas pays for the room in cash, and the desk attendant doesn’t even blink at them as he hands over a set of keys, and blows a bubble of mint-scented gum.

The room isn’t as ugly as it could be. Cas has been in worse places – the alleyway beside Elysium, for one. The floral bedspread on the double bed in the center of the room looks as though it’s seen better days, and he thinks the television must be from the early nineties, at the most.

As soon as Castiel closes the door behind him, Dean is on him like an animal. He kisses Cas like he’s hungry for it, and wraps his arms around his neck. His lips press burning kisses from Castiel’s lips to jaw to the sensitive skin behind his ear, where Dean whispers, “Bet you got a nice cock, handsome.” He smooths his hands over Cas’ chest through the fabric of his t-shirt, and Castiel watches those hands drift down, down, down.

Dean strokes between Cas’ legs.

Cas is already hard. Shamefully so. He shouldn’t be doing this. This is the worst idea that he’s ever had. He’s in a shitty motel room in Lawrence fucking Kansas, with a male prostitute in his midst that looks to be at least ten years younger than him.

But he’s so beautiful. What a strange word to apply, and yet it's the only one that comes to mind.

Damn.

“Wait,” Cas says, “Can I – can I see you naked?”

Dean deadpans, “For an extra twenty five.”

Cas just nods to that.

Dean strips off his plaid button-up, already undone down the front, and sheds it onto the floor. He teases a little, grinning a Cheshire grin as he pulls up the thin muscle shirt from his chest, leaving him bare. Freckles spread over his shoulders, too, and he has a strange, pagan-looking tattoo over his heart.

He also some interesting scars.

Castiel does not remark upon them.

Instead, he watches Dean languidly unzip the front of his torn-up jeans. His legs are well-muscled, though his boxers are unremarkable. Still, he makes them work when he offers up a little smirk to Castiel, and reaches inside his underwear to give himself a squeeze.

Cas’ throat goes dry.

That should not be as attractive as it is.

Dean rids himself of that last scrap of clothing, and shit, he is beautiful. He’s scrawny, but muscled enough to indicate that he’s strong. And he’s…rather well-endowed, which Castiel can certainly appreciate.

“Like what you see?” Dean asks, and cocks a brow.

Castiel swallows the knot in his throat and quietly answers, “Very much, yes.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dean replies. He steps forward and takes Cas by the wrist again. He guides Cas back to the ugly floral bedspread and pushes him back on it before he crawls over him and pushes another searing kiss to Cas’ mouth.

But when Dean winks and reaches down to the fly of Cas’ jeans, Castiel jerks up.

He can’t allow anyone to see him. The scars are everywhere.

Dean looks confused, and so Castiel digs in the pocket of his trench coat and brings out his wallet. He hurriedly says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. Here – just. Take this.” And before he can think on it any more than he already has, Cas pulls four hundreds out of the worn leather and throws them at Dean.

“Sorry,” Cas says again, and leaves Dean behind on the motel bed beside several hundred dollar bills.

**X**

Dean has no fucking idea what just happened.

And he’s had a hell of a lot of things happen to him before.

He has never, however, had a creepy-hot dude in a trench coat bargain a blow job and his name out of him before changing his mind and throwing hundreds of dollars at Dean’s naked ass.

What the hell?

Dean shakes his head and collects the hundreds. He pulls his jeans off of the motel room’s sketchy carpet and tucks them into the back pocket.

He, meanwhile, will be enjoying a shower. It has been so long since he has showered. Usually he can mask it with a lot of deodorant and a good coat of Axe, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling filthy under all that. And hell, if the guy sprung for a room, it may as well be put to good use, right?

The bathroom smells over-sanitized, sharp and lemony, but it’s better than most places. It even has those little shampoos and soaps. He could only let himself hope for a rinse, but this. This is the goddamn Ritz. Dean turns the knob to get the water running, and waits until it’s hot, real good and hot, before he steps into the shower with the tiny bottle of shampoo in his grip.

Fuck, yeah, that feels amazing. The hot water runs over his skin and with it takes several days’ worth of dirt. He’s had a couple of johns in the past days, but no one that wanted to fuck him, probably because he smelled like he’d crawled out of a garbage dump. It always sucks when he can’t get somebody to pay for that. He can, most of the time. Dean knows he looks good. Maybe a little underfed, but he’s got a nice ass and full lips and long eyelashes and all that shit his clients like to tell him about when they have their way with him. But lately, business has not been booming.

Dean empties the entire bottle of shampoo in his palm and lathers up his hair. It’s uneven from cutting it himself. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t had a decent night for money in weeks.

Thank Christ for weird shits in trench coats.

This means he’ll have a decent amount to send to Sammy this month, even if Sammy won’t know it’s from him in any case. He can take not talking. He can take being kicked out and ignored, but he can’t take not being allowed to help. That’s what he supposed to do. He’s supposed to take care of Sam, whether or not they’re speaking.

Dean doesn’t know how long he spends under the water. It doesn’t feel like much time, but he water gets cold, so he rushes to scrub the suds from his hair and the rest of the filth from his skin.

By the time that he’s back in the room and toweling dry with one of the stiff, bleached motel towels, he feels much better than he has for days. God, with this much money, he could actually afford a decent breakfast – shit, with coffee, and pastries, and anything he wanted. Yeah, he’ll do that.

The glowing numbers of the alarm clock back in the bedroom read that it’s half-past one in the morning, which means that Dean spent an hour and a half in the shower. It didn’t feel like that much time.

Dean feels a little guilty about leaving the Impala by herself, but it’s been so long since he’s slept in a real bed that he can’t resist the temptation, no matter how bad the sheets would look under a blacklight. He shimmies back into his underwear and jeans, and flips on the television. He channel surfs until he settles on some old rerun of the Simpsons, and stretches back out on the pillows.

And damn it all, he falls asleep before the first commercial break even comes to a close, scrubbed clean and tucked under a stiff motel comforter.

**X**

Dean wakes up comfy, and that in itself is an unusual way to begin his day. He registers the smell of musty carpet and clean sheets, and hears the sound of the morning news. For a minute, he panics and thinks he’s ended up in a john’s apartment, before the previous night hits him like a thunderstorm.

He sits up and immediately checks the back pocket of his jeans. His fingers curl around smooth paper, but Dean still pulls the bills out just to confirm that they’re still there.

God bless that weird dude.

Dean showers again before pulling his shirts on, and checks the time. The bank will be open by now, which means he should deposit money for Sammy before he does anything else.

At the kiosk outside, checkout consists of Dean returning the room key, and the desk attendant muttering, “Have a nice morning,” over the skin mag in his hairy hands

“Thanks,” Dean says, and heads down the street to the bank. He grins when he sees Missouri working today, and waves at her.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asks.

“Pretty damn good, how ‘bout you?” Dean replies.

“Same old, same old, sugar,” she says. When Dean wheedled his first wad of cash out of a john in Lawrence, he thought about sending money to Sammy via snailmail. After all, a bank account was not flying under the radar like he wanted it to be. He'd even caved and called Ellen, begging Sam's Stanford address out of her, until she pointed out to him that that there was no way he could send money to Sam the good old USPS way without a postmark telling Sam, if not exactly where Dean was, where he might be near to.

So he figured - if he and John could run bank scams one way, why not the other? He now has an ID with his picture on it and Sam's name. Missouri isn't stupid, not even close to it, but she doesn't ask about why Dean's carrying around a fake ID depositing money into bank accounts that aren't his, and so Dean doesn't tell her.

Like always, Dean deposits the cash and slinks out of the bank, feeling better for having done his duty to his family and giving Sam some money to live off of while he has his adventure in higher education, that stupid, smart motherfucker. 

"You behave yourself now," Missouri says to him.

“I'll try my best,” he says, and winks, “Have a good day.”

“You too, honey,” she says, and he waves goodbye to her.

And now for breakfast. He has a few options – there are plenty of diners open for business with bacon and pancakes, but Dean finds himself in a more cinnamon roll mood, so he veers off to the left of the bank and to the local bakery, a place called Trickster Coffee. He doesn’t drop in often, but he likes it. It doesn’t have any of that hoity-toity atmosphere that all the Starbucks-wannabe places popping up have to them. The interior feels warm and lived-in, with cushy furniture and local artists’ work on the walls. This week the art pays tribute to _Dia de los Muertos_ , which is around the corner now, he thinks.

“Dean-o,” greets Gabe, the owner of the joint. He bakes all the pastries himself, and damn, does he do a good job of it.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, “Just some black coffee and uh, a cinnamon roll.”

“Ooh, living on the edge this morning,” Gabriel remarks.

“Can it, shortstack, I know where you live,” Dean replies, and they both laugh.

Gabriel heats the cinnamon roll and passes Dean his coffee in a paper cup. It smells amazing, and Dean’s stomach stirs with immediate interest.

Of course, that _would_ be the moment that his eyes settle on some intense baby-blues, halfway hidden behind a worn out book, and belonging to a guy in a trench coat.

The weirdo from last night.


	2. But Only If You'll Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con hitting. 
> 
> I've added Sam/Jess to the relationships in this fic, though their relationship will not be the focus.
> 
> Though I've updated quickly this round, I will be updating on a weekly/near weekly basis after this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the support so far!

**Chapter Track: No One’s Boy – Marcy Playground**

**_But Only If You’ll Bleed_ **

Trench coat guy is crunched up in the corner of Trickster Coffee at a small two person table all the way in the back. His knees are drawn up to his chin, and his book a careful shield. When he catches Dean’s gaze, his eyes flare wide, and he stares pointedly back down at the pages.

Oh, fuck that. He’s not getting off that easy.

And okay, Dean doesn’t typically antagonize clients (unless specifically asked to between the sheets), but something about this dude is making him feel weird, and in a not-entirely-bad way. That doesn’t usually happen – and hey, if he can coax a few more hundreds out of the man, that’s just a bonus.

“Your total is seven dollars and twenty-one cents,” Gabriel announces, and Dean passes him the hundred bill that he didn’t deposit for Sammy.

Gabe whistles, “Dude, somebody had a good night.”

“You could say that,” Dean says. Gabriel doesn’t know exactly what Dean does, but he’s pretty sure the man has at least a vague idea that it involves not completely legal activities and possible nudity. It’s why Dean doesn’t come in here all the time, maybe. So he doesn’t have Gabe get close enough to ask the proverbial, _so, what do you do_? He never wants to have to answer that question. Ever. Especially if the person asking is a person he generally likes, like Gabriel Novak.

Gabe passes Dean his change, which he pockets. He glances over at the weirdo again, and sees him staring.

Once caught, though, the weirdo turns back to his book again.

Dean sets his paper coffee cup on the weird guy’s table and greets, “Hey.”

“Um,” is all that the guy can get out before Gabriel swings over with the hot cinnamon roll on a bright red plate.

He cocks a brow at the pair of them and asks, “You two know each other?”

“You could say that,” Dean replies, an easy smile sliding onto his slips, “This guy here just _plowed_ into me last night.” Weird Guy’s blue eyes go wider and he gives a little shake of his head. Dean continues, “Knocked me on my ass on the sidewalk. Apologized and up and left before I could even get his name.”

“Plowing, huh?” Gabriel’s eyes sparkle, “And the name bit’s easy. That’s Castiel.”

Dean chokes on his coffee.

“As in _your brother_ Castiel?” Dean asks. Sure, he tries to maintain a certain distance between himself and Gabriel, but they did once talk about their families, like, almost a year ago. Dean had been feeling down about Sam and ordered an ass-ton of food, which naturally led to a little concern on Gabriel’s part. Dean was not a big spender. He was a cup of black coffee every so often, not a pile of pastries and misery. Except that day. So he spilled that he missed his brother. Gabriel said that he missed his brother, too.

“The very one,” Gabriel says, and offers up a little wink, “How about I leave you two alone?”

“Aw, fuck you,” Dean says, and Gabe just laughs.

Across the table, Castiel clutches his book like a lifeline, while Dean tucks into his cinnamon roll. Jesus, that is delicious.

“You know my brother,” Castiel finally says.

Dean replies mid-chew, “No shit, Sherlock.”

“How do you know my brother?”

“I live here and sometimes buy coffee from him,” Dean answers, brow cocked, “Your brother know that you’re into male hookers?”

“I’m not – I mean, I’ve never,” Castiel stammers, and then lowers his voice, “I’d never done anything like that before, okay? And I do not intend to do it again, thank you very much.”

Dean actually feels offended at that. Part of his job is that he’s supposed to leave people wanting more. Instead of that, he’s made this guy never want to pay for sex again. That’s not how it’s meant to go. The guy’s a big spender, and Dean wants to keep him spending.

Castiel goes on, “And for your information, Gabriel is aware of my homosexuality.”

So he’s not some poor closeted sap.

Then why’d he come to Dean?

Dean is actually at a loss for this, because Castiel Novak is far from unattractive, and if he’s not afraid of his own sexuality, then…what?

And fine. Dean’s curiosity gets the better of him. He nurses his strong coffee, grateful for the kick that it gives him, and asks, “So, what’d you need me for, then?”

“Why are you turning tricks in the first place?” Castiel deadpans back.

“None of your goddamn business,” Dean says.

Castiel replies, “Exactly. None of your goddamn business, indeed.”

They sit in silence. Dean’s leg starts to jostle under the table of its own accord, and he realizes that even though he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t really want to leave. In the late morning sunshine, Castiel looks even rougher around the edges than he did last night under the streetlamp outside of Elysium, or in the fluorescent light of the room at the Lucky Lady. His eyes are shadowed and crease at the corners with what seems more like exhaustion than age. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, at least. And he’s wearing that ugly-ass trench coat, stained and too big for him, even though he’s not a small man.

Dean clears his throat and asks, “What are you reading?”

“Oh,” Castiel says, surprised, “I…um. It’s a fantasy novel. It’s about magic.”

“What, like Harry Potter?”

“Only in the vaguest sense,” responds Cas, “Do you…like to read?”

Dean shrugs, “I’m not very good at it.”

“You don’t have to be good at it to enjoy it,” Cas says.

“I haven’t read a book in years, dude,” Dean says, honestly. The last time he read one was probably – in the slammer? Yeah, probably then. There, he preferred books over the other inmates, even if it took ten million years to finish a book at the pace he reads. He’s no Sam. Hell, Dean isn’t even a Bobby. He’s just not a very smart man, period.  

“I could loan you one,” Cas replies.

Dean cocks his head. The guy sounds so fucking sincere.

So naturally, he replies, “Um. Okay. But uh, you might not get it back for a while. I’m a slow reader, man.”

“That’s all right,” Castiel says, “You can take as much time as you need. Do you come here often?”

Dean snorts at that, but Cas doesn’t seem to understand why it’s funny, and so he says, “Uh, not really? Gabe’s nice but I’m not exactly rolling in money for his fancy-ass coffee, you know?”

“Okay,” Cas says, working this out in his head, “I could bring by a book or two to where you live.”

“I live in my car, dude,” Dean says back.

Cas’ brows pinch. He asks, “Do you sleep there?”

“Uh, yeah, I was pretty sure that was implied,” Dean says. He finishes the last of his coffee, but definitely feels like he needs another to get the blood flowing, so he stands and brings his cup to counter and shakes the paper container at Gabriel, “Hey, dude, top me off?”

“Yeah, tiger, just a second,” Gabriel replies, and passes a middle-aged woman her sugary-smelling latte. Dean tries not to study the lady too closely, just in case he’s slept with her before. That happens sometimes. A lot more than he wishes it did, actually. But what can he do? Risks of the workplace.

“Your brother’s pretty weird, man,” Dean says.

Gabriel purses his lips a little at that, and fills Dean’s paper cup before he spares a look over at where Castiel is looking at both of them. He replies, “I know he’s pretty awkward, but it’s not really his fault.”

Dean gathers that this is not an appropriate topic of conversation and clears his throat, “Uh, yeah. Anyway, I’m gonna take off, but thanks for the coffee. And your brother’s name.” Dean winks and Gabe allows a little chuckle to that.

Before he leaves, though, he knocks his hand against the table he shared with Castiel and says, “Hey, Cas, I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you around, though, okay?”

“Will you?” Castiel asks.

“Sure, dude,” Dean replies.

He has no idea if that’s true.

**X**

Castiel is not sure what he just experienced. Okay, no, he knows what he just experienced. The prostitute whose mouth he paid for and nearly had is a patron of his brother’s, and recognized him in Trickster Coffee, and sat across from him and spoke to him as though Castiel hadn’t seen him without any clothing the night before. They spoke like old friends.

What he doesn’t know is how he feels about that. Surely, his focus should be elsewhere. His nightmares. His living situation. His lack of employment. Anything, really, but a man named Dean that turns tricks for a living.

He was wearing the same clothes from last night: a rumpled plaid button-up over a cheap undershirt, jeans that looked as though they’d seen much better days, and work boots fit for a construction site.

And he paid for his coffee with one of Cas’ hundred bills.

Clearly Castiel is not thinking of things that he should be. His mind seems stuck in one place, like a fly trapped in honey.

 _Why is Dean sleeping in his car_? He scratches a hand through his hair at that thought and frowns.

At around noon, Castiel gives up on focusing on his book and excuses himself to go back home. Gabe tells him he loves him, like he does every time he and Castiel part. He thinks his brother does it because he’s worried. Not that Gabriel doesn’t actually love him – it’s just that before the Middle East, he’d never said those three words as often as he does now. Cas barely goes a few hours put together without hearing the phrase at least once. It’s thoughtful, if a little annoying.

He walks back to Gabe’s apartment, and sighs when he closes the door behind himself. The place is dark, and smells a little like Chinese takeout. Castiel thinks about watching a movie or television show, but he’s afraid he’ll fall asleep again, so he goes to the coffee machine to fix himself a pot of joy, despite having just polished off one of Gabriel’s espresso-based science experiments. He doesn’t want to sleep any time soon.

Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep at all. Wouldn’t that be grand? That’d be one way not to relive that night every time he closes his eyes.

Although he’s afraid to fall asleep, he also can’t concentrate on a book right now, and so he switches on the television, browsing Netflix until he finds an older film that looks like something decent to watch. No violence, just laughs and silliness that the nineteen fifties were famous for.

Gabriel arrives home with groceries in his arms several hours later. He cocks a brow at the mug of coffee nestled between Castiel’s hands and says, “You need to sleep sometime, kiddo.”

“Do not call me kiddo.”

“Sorry,” Gabe says, “You want spaghetti?”

“Spaghetti is fine,” Cas consents.

“And how was your day, brother dearest?” Gabriel asks, though he isn’t looking at Cas anymore. He’s focused on the task at hand, pulling down a pasta pot to boil the noodles in, and arranging the items he purchased at the grocery store on his cramped but clean kitchen counter.

“I watched a lot of Netflix,” Castiel replies.

“No, not that,” Gabriel says, “I mean _Dean_. How’d you guys meet, really? C’mon, I’m not that dumb.”

Cas’ cheeks heat and he focuses his vision on his pajama-clad legs, one woefully empty where his calf should be, since he stored his prosthetic away for the rest of the night. He tears his eyes away from the sight and replies, “It’s not your business, Gabriel.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Come on, I’m your brother,” Gabe insists, “At least tell me you think he’s handsome. Dean’s a hot dude. I could see you getting on that.”

“I am not ‘getting on’ anything,” Cas says.

“You’re no fun,” Gabe sighs, “Well, I can tell Dean’s got a thing for you, in any case.”

Cas lifts his head to glance at Gabriel then, “He does?”

Gabriel turns from his work at the stove and smirks.

“Shut up,” Castiel says, though Gabe hasn’t said anything.

“He’s a good guy,” Gabriel goes on, “Weird, but good. Keeps to himself most of the time, which is why my jimmies are so rustled over him sitting with you, Cas. To be honest I don’t know a lot about him. I don’t even know where he lives.”

“He told me he lives in his car,” Castiel replies.

“Dude, what?”

“He said he lives in his car,” Cas repeats, “I thought it was kind of strange too. Can he not find an apartment?”

Gabe massages the back of his neck and lets out a long breath. He says, “Well…he hasn’t said anything to me, but my guess is the dude’s got a record. There aren’t a lot of places in this area that are keen on having an ex-con around, you know? Man, all this talk is a mega-downer. You wanna watch Adventure Time?”

“I guess.”

Gabriel’s look of concern lingers on Castiel as he switches the television back to his recordings, and selects an episode of the cartoon to watch while the spaghetti cooks. He flops back onto the couch beside Cas, and for just an instant, Gabe’s eyes flick to where Cas’ leg is missing. He doesn’t linger long – he knows not to, but it still hurts. Cas doesn’t want to be stared at. Doesn’t want to be pitied. And he doesn’t want to look this way, either. He misses when his family treated him like normal, when he didn’t need help doing regular, menial things…when he could run.

He doesn’t say any of those things out loud, though. He just stares ahead at the television screen.

When Gabe finishes making dinner, they sit together at his small, thrift store-found kitchen table in mismatched chairs. Castiel isn’t often hungry anymore, but he eats the meal anyway, because Gabriel made it and he knows that Gabe’s just trying to do everything he can to make Cas comfortable here.

They keep the conversation light and steered intentionally away from anything to do with Castiel. Gabe discusses plans to take Kali out that weekend, and how Anna’s thinking that she’ll visit with her girls at Christmas, and what spices he used to make the spaghetti sauce taste so good. They don’t talk about Dean, or Castiel’s nightmares, or last week when a thunderstorm triggered Cas into a fit. It took hours for him to come down, realizing he wasn’t overseas. He was in Lawrence, Kansas, in a small apartment, with his brother.

But when Gabe calls it a night and they separate into their respective bedrooms, those are still the things that Castiel thinks of. The triggers. The nightmares.

And Dean.

**X**

Dean has a bad night.

He left the Impala in a strip mall parking lot, someplace innocuous and secluded, and returns to find the side keyed. She’s already in bad shape. His dad would be ashamed if he could see her, and he knows it. It makes his face burn with shame and guilt, even though he knows there’s nothing he can do. He can’t afford to treat her like she deserves, and so she’s dented, scratched and faded in places. The windshield’s been cracked for the better part of four years, and knows he has a taillight out.  

Dean smokes a cigarette to chill himself out. He probably shouldn’t smoke, but it gives him something to hang onto when the rest of his life is bullshit. When he finishes, he shimmies into the Impala and changes into a fresh set of clothing, before he sprays himself with a little deodorant to keep himself smelling decent. He has a while before work.

When he surveys himself in one of his girl’s side mirrors, he looks pretty decent. More decent than he has in a while, anyway. His two showers at the Lucky Lady made him presentable, and the coffee gave him a bit of a boost – just what he needs for a night of hard work. Putting that money away.

When the sun sets and the neon lights flick on, Dean gets his first customer. He sucks him off in an alley, and goes limp when the guy just decides to fuck his face.

At the end of it, his throat and jaw are sore, his mood a little damper, but hey, he’s got fifty bucks in his pocket.

It’s the next guy that does him in.

Alastair, a regular. He knows where to find Dean, and even has Dean’s cell number programed into his phone. He doesn’t call this time, though. He just rounds the corner of Elysium and grins wide.

“Hello, dear.”

He doesn’t know Dean’s real name, which is at least one thing Dean has going for him in this department.

“What do you want tonight, handsome?” he asks, and the words taste like poison on his tongue.

“I want to fuck you,” Alastair provides, and goes on, “and I’ll pay extra to make it hurt. How does three hundred sound?”

Kind of cheap, in comparison to his lucky strike with Castiel, but it’s more than generous for Alastair. Dean shoves anxiety down. He tries not to think of how bad it'll feel after, or how he'll remember too many things that he doesn't want to have to remember...the smell of mint carfreshener, chewing tobacco, and an awful smile in a red pickup truck, too many years ago.

Remember anything but that.

And Castiel said he wasn’t ever going to do this again, so Dean has to take what he can get.

“Sure thing,” Dean says, and smiles, even though what roils through his stomach is nothing close to a smile. He follows Alastair to his car. After this, his driver will take them to a hotel, something a little more luxurious than the Lucky Lady, though Alastair does not let him stay. Alastair books the room for himself, and he orders dinner immediately after he has his way with Dean. That’s the routine. Alley, car, hotel, fucking, room service for one, Dean gets the boot.

But he walks away a wealthier man.

Their room is an unassuming suite on the third floor of some fancy place with a marble foyer and suited staff. Dean pretends he isn’t as nervous as he is, and follows Alastair obediently, a pace behind his suited back.

When Alastair closes the door behind them both, he instructs, “Undress,” and Dean does just that. He sheds his clothing and folds it neatly, a habit not his own but something he knows that Alastair appreciates. The air conditioning turns Dean’s skin into gooseflesh.

“Hands and knees, on the bed.”

Again, Dean submits.

The comforter on this bed is softer than the floral one at the Lucky Lady, but it makes him ten times more uncomfortable. There’s no pattern of petals and leaves for Dean to focus on when Alastair fucks him, just plain, white, empty space.

“Pay me first,” Dean reminds him through gritted teeth.

Alastair sighs and remarks, “Take the fun out of it, don’t you?”

“It’s a business transaction, buddy,” Dean says, though there’s very little courage behind the words.

Alastair goes quiet, but a moment later, three crisp hundreds sit in Dean’s line of vision. Alastair says, “I will put these with your clothes.”

Alastair shuffles. Dean doesn’t dare glance back, but he hears the clink of Alastair’s expensive leather belt as it hits the luxury carpet. There’s another rustle, and he feels the mattress sink behind him. Something strokes along Dean’s back, but it isn’t Alastair’s hand. It’s cool, inhuman, and oh, shit, that’s a switch.

Dean doesn’t have much time to swallow that information before Alastair brings it down on his back. Dean’s teeth clench. His fingers curl into the stark bedding, knuckles whitening when the switch comes down on his skin for a second time. The soft noise of pain that breaks from Dean’s lips only encourages Alastair, and he brings the little bit of lethal leather down on him again, harder. Then faster.

Fuck.

God, God, shit, fuck.

Flames engulf his back, liquid flame, and he knows the skin on his back is broken. He feels hot tears stream down his face that he can’t help, a physical reaction to the pain. Shit, he knows this was a bad idea, but the money…he needs to. Because that’s what he does. He makes sure that his people get taken care of.

Alastair is turned on. He can feel it.

“Fuck me,” he says on a thin thread of voice. He wants it to be over with. The sooner that Alastair gets off, the sooner that Dean can crawl back to the Impala and sleep off this shit.

“I want you to beg for it.”

Oh, fuck that.

Dean tightens his fists.

“ _Please_ fuck me.”

He hears a cap pop and a moment later feels slick against him – but it isn’t Alastair’s fingers, it’s his cock, and before Dean can register that he’s going to fuck Dean without any sort of foreplay, he’s already inside to the hilt. A roaring pain cascades through him, so intense that he feels like one half of his body is ripping from the other. Alastair doesn’t allow any time for adjustment. He just fucks. Dean’s crying harder, but he keeps it quiet, and muffles any pained noises he makes in the pillow in front of him. He’s bleeding and shaking, shaking so hard his teeth chatter.

How is it possible for Dean to be such a fucking waste of space?

All Dean is good for is this, being fucked and used by slimy guys that don’t even know his name. He tries not to drown in the feeling, but keeps slipping with each burst of pain as Alastair thrusts up inside him. His chest shrivels up inside him, and he tries to remember to cut off his brain. Stop thinking. Just be here.

Dean wipes his mind clean and stares straight ahead. It always goes quicker when he gets to this place, a blank state of mind, any thoughts so quiet that they’re white noise in the back of his brain. All that remains is Dean’s body, and the pain it’s in. And that’s better, because he doesn’t have to think about any of the rest of it.

Alastair comes with an ugly, primal grunt, and throws Dean aside on the mattress.

“Get dressed and leave,” he says.

Dean stumbles when he stands, and catches himself against the hotel wall, underneath a framed black and white photograph of a tree. Alastair chuckles behind him, and Dean tunes it out, limping to where he left his things. His clothes will stick to the blood, but he’s so exhausted that he can’t find it in him to care.

Once dressed, he slumps inside the elevator and hobbles out across the lobby. He tries to make himself walk as straight as he can, but the hotel staff knows Alastair, and they know what he does with Dean. It’s not a secret. He keeps his eyes down at the floor, shame in his face, as he walks out.

It seems like a year before he reaches the Impala. Dean has just enough energy to pry open the back door and crawl onto the backseat. He locks himself in, and blissfully, lets the world around him fade to black.

**X**

“Your hair sticks up when you do that, you know,” Jess says.

Sam lets go of where he’d been holding his head up in front of his laptop and smiles sheepishly back at his girlfriend. She grins back, and pushes her reading glasses up further on her nose, before she stands. She wraps her arms around him from behind his computer chair and breathes against his neck.

“I’ve gotta run to the bank before it closes,” she says, “Freaking direct deposit isn't set up, and if I don't get there today I'm not gonna have money for lunch tomorrow.”

“Ah – let me finish this thing and I’ll come with,” he says. He punches in the last half of his sentence for his history class, not his major, but a required credit and still fascinating. At his dorm room’s door, he slips tennis shoes on his feet, and grabs his own mail key, though Ellen just sent a care package last week and he won’t be getting another for a little while longer.

Sam and Jess' bank are one and the same – it is, in fact, how they met (he couldn’t help but strike up a conversation with a pretty blond whose t-shirt said ‘ _Please stop talking. You’re Boron me’_ ). They laugh and talk all the way down the few blocks that it takes to get there, and before they step through the automatic sliding doors, he steals a kiss. Jess tastes like sticky strawberry lipgloss and bubblegum. God, he loves that taste. His lips curl up at it, and he laughs when Jess uses her thumb to wipe the gloss from his lips.

The good feelings don’t last.

While Jess deposits her paycheck from Applebee's (not permanent, she has to remind Sam constantly, and not everybody has a fancy scholarship like he does), Sam gets his statement printed out from the teller beside hers. He likes keeping them for his records even if he knows that he could just find them all through internet banking. He's all for the technological revolution as much as the next guy - probably more - but old habits die hard, and his father's paranoia that records being untangible rendered them no records at all rubs onto him despite his best effort not to let it.

The teller passes him his driver's license and his statement over the counter and Sam slides his eyes over it. Mostly he spends his money on junk food and dates at the movies with Jess and -

Fuck.

There it is, like it appears every so often. A deposit marks the bottom of his statement, a deposit for three hundred entire dollars, appearing as though Sam deposited that ghost money himself. But he didn't put it in his account, and he knows who did. He knows it's Dean, though he doesn't have the first fucking clue where Dean is in this world, or how he's getting money to Sam without a trace of a record left behind. Just like dad - knowing the records and being able to erase them just as easily.

"Sam?" Jess says, her plucked brows furrowed with concern. She sees him staring at the statement and says, "Again, huh?"

"Yeah," he replies.

At first he thought it was Bobby. Hell, he'd prefer it being Bobby. But no, it wasn't. Because when he called home in Sioux Falls, Bobby told him he was insane and an _idjit_ before he got conspicuously, eerily silent. That's when Sam realized that, disappearance or not, his big brother was still looking out for him. It made him angry.

“There has got to be some way to figure this out,” he says at last. He meets Jess’ eyes over the statement and adds, “Right?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” she says.

 _I don’t know_ are not words that he often hears from her.

“Sam,” she says, “I know you want to make up for what happened, but…it seems like he just doesn’t want to be found.”

“Fuck what he wants,” Sam heatedly says, a coil of white-hot anger unfurling in his gut, “He’s my brother, and this is stupid, and I want to see him again. I’m going to find Dean.”

Jess, wisely, just nods.


	3. These Wounds Have Seen No Wars

 

**Chapter Track: The Worst Day Since Yesterday – Flogging Molly**

**_These Wounds Have Seen No Wars_ **

Sometimes when Castiel doesn’t feel like being around people, he slinks out of Gabriel’s apartment and down the few blocks it takes to reach Cloud Nine Books & Comics. It’s a small used book store, tucked into the far corner of a lonely strip mall, and Cas loves it. Books tower from floor to ceiling, on shelves or in crooked stacks, and in between them lay nooks and crannies to hide in, so he doesn’t have to speak to anybody.

The man that runs the place, Garth, is friendly and good-natured, and over the course of the past months has learned that Castiel doesn’t really like conversation all that much. So he lets him be, and always smiles when Cas comes to the counter, and tells him to have a good day. 

Garth was a soldier once, too.

He hasn’t said as much, but Castiel can tell. It’s in the way that he stands and how he treats others, and even in the way he speaks. 

Today when Cas ducks inside Cloud Nine and out of the late September cold, Garth smiles as always and waves at him, and he manages a lift of his own hand back. The smell of musty, well-loved pages permeates the air and settles Cas’ mind. The nightmares came again last night, and he woke up shouting. Gabe had stumbled into his bedroom and flicked on the lights to make sure Castiel was okay, and instead of being grateful, he’d yelled at Gabe and they’d fought. The only thing either of them had said this morning was Gabe’s usual  _I love you_ , before he took off to open up Trickster for the day. 

After Gabriel left, Cas brewed a pot of coffee to keep him going throughout the next twenty four hours. Possibly longer. He doesn't like to sleep. A thermos of that coffee sits in one of the spacious pockets of his trench coat and bumps against his leg when he shifts. 

He peruses through the science fiction section, running his fingers over creased spines and reading titles that promise faraway places at the distant edges of the universe. He flips through the first pages of some of the yellowed volumes and nurses the coffee from his travel mug.

Castiel forgets, for a time, about everything.

But then the bell at the front door rings, indicating another customer has come inside, and he tumbles back to earth with a terrible clatter. 

Castiel listens as Garth greets the customer, but keeps stowed in his corner.

“We’re supposed to read Fahrenheit 451 for my English class,” Cas hears them say.

Once upon a time, if he’d chosen a different way, he thinks that he might have liked to be a teacher. Nothing fancy, maybe high school level English. Old enough for them to understand what he’d be saying, but young enough that he could guide them.

But that was another life, another time.

This is where he is instead – unemployed and mutilated.

Cas waits until he hears the student pay Garth for her new book to unfold himself and emerge from his hiding spot. He has four new books in his arms, and he supposes that’s enough for one day. He doesn’t know how long they’ll last him – he reads fast, and being unemployed, he has ample time to consume them. 

“Found some good stuff?” Garth asks, when Castiel arrives at the front counter.

Cas nods, “Yes, thank you.”

“Only four this time, huh?” he smiles, and punches the prices into his ancient cash register, “Guess I’ll be seeing you again pretty soon.”

“Probably,” Cas agrees. He pays Garth in cash and carries the books out in his arms over using a plastic bag. He weaves through the parking lot to cross to the sidewalk –

and stops. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a body curled up in the back of a worn-old car. 

It’s Dean.

Castiel can only see a mess of hair and long lashes above the blanket tucked up all around him, but it’s him, it’s him for sure. He stares, and breathes an odd sigh of relief when he sees that Dean’s breathing. He’s just asleep.

And before Cas knows what he’s doing, he knocks on the window glass.

Dean jerks awake, rushing into a sitting position.

When he sees Castiel, the wild look in his eye dies, and he flops back onto the seat.

“What do you want, dude?” he asks, voice rough.

“Um,” Cas replies, and realizes that it didn’t occur to him why he was knocking on the car window.

“Come on, man, you woke me up for this?” Dean complains. He rubs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. A hitch forms between his brows.

“You don’t look very comfortable in there,” Cas says at last.

“I’m not. Will you fuck off?”

“Well,” Cas says, “I was thinking – I mean, if you still would like to – you could come back to Gabe’s apartment and select some books? Unless you were merely trying to be polite when you said you’d like to borrow some.”

Dean smears a hand over his face and then stares back up at Cas through the dirty window glass. His eyes are tired. He asks, “Could I use your shower?”

Of course.

Dean doesn’t have a place to bathe.

Cas tilts his head and then replies, “I don’t see why not.”

At this, Dean smiles. It’s not one of the smiles that Dean flashed him after Cas booked the room at the Lucky Lady, it’s a real one. A small one, but certainly a smile. It makes him look years younger when he does it, almost teenaged. He shifts up into a sitting position and lets out a soft, sleepy groan that makes Cas’ head go a little fuzzy. 

Dean unlocks his car door and stumbles out into the parking lot. He trips, but catches himself against the vehicle. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s clear in his face that he’s hurting. Castiel would know the look of pain anywhere, with or without sound to accompany it. 

“You’re in pain,” he says.

Dean shoots him a look and replies, “Yeah. I’m fine. We walking?”

Cas nods. Dean leans back into the interior of his car to grab something from inside – a package of cigarettes. He doesn’t speak as he locks his car and lights one, though he does offer the package to Castiel, who declines. 

It takes a great deal of effort for Castiel to walk straight with his prosthetic, but he concentrates on it throughout the entire walk. He does not fail to notice, however, that Dean isn’t walking quite right, and that a scowl is fixed on his face. He’s hurt, just like Cas thought, and probably due to his profession. It’s the only line of logic that he can formulate for it, and it’s a line of logic that makes anger boil the acid in his stomach. 

Castiel does not like people that hurt other people. 

When they make it to the apartment building and into the elevator, Dean slumps against the wall and closes his eyes. He doesn’t look unwell, but he does look exhausted. If a shower is all he needs to feel better, than Castiel is more than happy to provide. 

“Stop staring at me,” Dean says without opening his eyes. 

“I was just trying to make certain you’re all right,” Cas reasons.

“Well, stop it.”

Cas doesn’t stop it, though. Dean smells like cigarette smoke and unwashed skin, but he looks good regardless, even sleep-rumpled and in pain. He has an attractive jawline. As Cas looks him over, Dean cracks one eye open and turns his head. He says, “Seriously, man, you’re creeping me out.”

Cas does turn away then, because he doesn’t want Dean to think that he’s after more than loaning out a book or – companionship, or something. He doesn’t want to buy Dean, and at the rate he’s going with his money, he soon wouldn’t be able to afford to even if he were so inclined. He doesn’t know why the idea to buy sex seemed sound two nights ago. Perhaps he should blame it on the vodka.

But no. No, it wasn’t the alcohol. He wanted Dean, and he knows that. 

The elevator settles on the fourth floor and Castiel inclines his head at the opening doors. Dean shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and follows.

“Nice place,” he says, when Cas lets them in.

“It’s Gabriel’s,” Cas gruffly says. 

He supposes it is nice, nice enough, in any case. Gabriel has a penchant for bright colors, so while he’s not permitted to paint the walls something other than their original butter-yellow color, he’s plastered art and movie posters from corner to corner to corner. It’s an “organized mess,” or so Gabe terms it. 

“How come you don’t gotta place of your own?” Dean asks.

Castiel replies, “Likely because I do not have a job.”

Dean’s brows lift high on his forehead at this tidbit of information and he pries, “How come? You sure had enough money to blow on hookers.”

“It’s private,” Cas says, “Would you like me to brew a pot of coffee while you bathe?”

“Oh,” Dean says, like he’s forgotten how Cas cajoled him out of his car in the first place, “Yeah, dude, sounds good.”

Cas affords him a stiff nod and leads him to the bathroom. From the linen closet he pulls a fresh set of bright blue towels out and sets them on the compact bathroom counter, beside the sink. He says, “Here. Feel free to use anything that you need.”

The lock on the bathroom door makes a soft  _snick_  a beat after Castiel exits back toward the kitchen. He sets the coffee to brew, and when he hears the sound of the shower start after several quiet minutes, he sits on the couch to peek at his leg. He still isn’t entirely used to it after these months, and attempting to walk on it in a way that suggests both his legs are flesh always makes it ache something awful. He presses his fingers into the scarred flesh above the prosthetic. A hum of satisfaction escapes his lips before he can stop it.

When the coffee pot beeps to indicate that it’s full, the shower is still on. Cas pours himself a mug, but waits to pour Dean’s drink. He knows Dean likes black coffee, but worries that it would cool before he got out of the shower – and Castiel doesn’t want to rush him. 

The sound of running water shuts off nearly a half-hour later, when Castiel has opened one of the books he purchased at Cloud Nine and is several pages in. He glances up, and sips his coffee.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean calls through the bathroom door.

“Yes?”

“I forgot to grab some clothes, do you have anything I could borrow? I swear I’ll bring it back,” Dean says. 

“Of course,” Cas tells him, and marks his page so he can stand. 

He selects a t-shirt with the cover of Slaughterhouse Five printed on the soft, gray cotton, and a pair of sturdy jeans that he owned before everything happened – his prosthetic can’t fit inside them. He isn’t sure if Dean needs any undergarments or not, and includes a pair of boxers just in case. 

With these in his arms, he knocks on the bathroom door. 

Dean opens the door just barely and mutters, “Thanks,” when he takes the bundle of clothes.

A handful of minutes later, Dean emerges.

“You clean up well,” Castiel remarks when he sees him. In clothes without rips or stains, he looks… _put-together_ , even. But there’s a hard set to his jaw and queasiness in his expression. Cas doesn’t ask about these things, and instead offers to fix them, “Do you want something to eat?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Uh, thanks, dude. This is really – cool of you.”

Cas smiles.

Dean looks much better with a half-drunk mug of joy in his hands, when he’s finished a plate of leftover spaghetti that Castiel put in the microwave for a little too long. The color is back in his face, and he doesn’t seem as tense. 

He takes Dean to his bedroom and switches on the light. The piles of books in the corner of the room aren’t much, but he still says, “Choose anything you’d like to read.”

Dean plops onto his knees on the carpet and picks up one of the first books in front of him. He’s right, he does read slowly, but he doesn’t seem disinterested in what Cas has to offer. 

“You have a lot of scifi,” Dean comments, “Hey, wait, is that Watchmen? I know that’s not exactly a  _book_ , but can I borrow that one anyway? I’ve always wanted to – ” he cuts himself off and goes a little pink in the face.

“Go ahead,” Cas says.

“Awesome,” Dean replies, and pulls the book into his lap. 

When they finish sorting through Castiel’s books, Dean has two others along with Watchmen – a cheesy scifi novel written sometime in the mid-eighties, and Slaughterhouse Five, “because he can’t wear a shirt with the cover on it if he doesn’t know what it is,” he tells Cas. 

Dean reaches for his boots when they exit Castiel’s bedroom, and Cas blurts, “You don’t have to go.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, you could stay. We could watch a movie, if you’d like,” he says. 

Dean studies him, green eyes hard. He says, “You want sex or something?”

“What? No,” Cas rushes to say, “I simply wanted…well, I just thought that you might like to, um. I don’t have a lot of people to spend time with, you see, and…”

“You wanna hang out?” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Cas confirms. He doesn’t know why he feels so embarrassed to ask for that, either, but it’s even harder than bargaining for a blow job.

“Dude, all you had to do was say so,” he responds, “What movies do you have?”

“Gabriel has quite an extensive collection,” Cas says.

He lets Dean peruse the cabinets of DVDs, a process that takes much longer than Castiel expected it to, as Dean carefully looks over each one, and sometimes pulls the case out to look for more information. He turns to Cas after a few silent minutes and asks, “Hey, is there anything you wanna watch? There’s so much shit in here I don’t know.”

Cas stands and comes up behind Dean. He thumbs through the movies and says, “I like this one…and –”

“No way, is that the original Batman?” Dean asks, and jerks the DVD case out of Castiel’s grip, “Goddamn, I haven’t seen this since I was a kid. Can we watch it?”

Dean’s enthusiasm teases a smile to Castiel’s lips, and he nods. He slides the disc into the player and switches on the television, letting the movie play before he takes his and Dean’s empty mugs to the sink to rinse them out and place them in the dishwasher. He offers Dean a beer, which Dean gladly accepts, even though he says he “doesn’t recognize this weird-ass hipster shit.”

It’s Gabriel’s beer, so Cas is hard-pressed to be offended. 

They’re only a few minutes in when Dean finishes his beer and stretches his hands up, resting his head against them. He has that smile on his face, the one that makes him look so much younger, and says, “You know, me n’ Sammy used to watch this all the time when we were kids.”

“Who’s Sammy?”

A stricken look slaps onto Dean’s face, and Cas knows he’s said something that he didn’t mean to.

“He’s my brother,” Dean mutters, but when Cas opens his mouth to ask obvious follow-up questions, Dean adds, “Don’t. I’m not gonna talk about it.”

“Okay,” is all that Cas says. 

They watch the entirety of the original Batman, and onto watching the 1960s Batman cartoon, which Gabriel naturally also owns. Cas has never watched any of them, but finds himself laughing easily along with Dean, episode after episode. He serves them another couple of bottles of beer, and microwaves a bowl of popcorn, and they lounge on Gabe’s couch like they’ve been friends for years.

It’s a nice feeling. Cas forgets himself.

Cas forgets himself so much, in fact, that he’s surprised when Gabriel walks in with a plastic grocery bag on his wrist.

Gabe glances from Castiel to Dean and asks, “Did you two fuck?”

“No!” they exclaim.

Gabriel just stares but says, “Allrighty then. Dean, you staying for grilled cheeses?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” Dean says.

“Cool, Batman party,” Gabe says, and grins. 

Gabriel fixes them each a grilled cheese sandwich while the cartoon plays on the television. He makes Castiel’s with tomato, like he likes, but keeps his and Dean’s sandwiches just plain cheese and buttery, cooked bread. He makes Dean and Cas pause Batman to all gather at the kitchen table in the ugly chairs, with beers and a couple of the day’s leftover pastries from Trickster to serve as dessert. 

“Tuck in, boys,” Gabe says.

Dean clearly does not need to be told twice. 

When the dishes are cleared of food, Castiel takes them from the table to rinse them, while Gabriel and Dean debate which Batman villain is the best. Gabriel favors the Penguin, while Dean argues for Catwoman. Castiel doesn’t know which he prefers, but it makes him smile to see his brother and Dean so heated about the topic. 

They return to watching the cartoon some twenty minutes later, Dean and Castiel on opposite ends of the couch, and Gabriel inclines on his favorite stuffed armchair, a leather contraption that has a drink holder in the armrest. It is his pride and joy, so he says. 

Cas laughs a lot more than he has in a really, really long time.

When he turns to see if Dean is having as much fun as he is, he sees Dean slumped over the couch’s armrest, arm curled under his head, asleep. 

And then, when the episode ends, Castiel pulls down a spare blanket from the linen closet and drapes it over him. 

Gabe’s couch is probably more comfortable than the backseat of a car.

 

**X**

Dean is warm when he wakes up. He groans and shifts – his back still hurts, but it’s not as bad as when Castiel woke him up in the Impala yesterday. 

Castiel.

Dean opens his eyes.

He’s on the couch in Gabriel’s apartment still, but he’s by himself, a fleece blanket covering him. The sun just barely peeks up through the curtains across the apartment, leaving a streak of yellow morning sunlight on the carpet. He sits up and cracks the kinks out of his neck. 

This is too weird. The only people that have ever fed him, clothed him, and let him shower and crash at their place are family – and Gabriel and Castiel are not family. They’re not…bad, but he barely knows them. Doesn’t know them nearly enough to let them treat him like family. He can’t stay, though he guesses it would be rude not to say thanks. 

Dean climbs to his feet and pads into the kitchen. There’s a notepad on the fridge, a sharpie slotted beside it. He scrawls “Thanks – Dean” onto the first page. He finds his clothes from the previous day where he left them, folded neatly underneath his boots so that the bloodstains on the back of the shirt don’t show. 

With boots laced up onto his feet and books under his arm, Dean spares a final glance at the Novak apartment. He left the fleece blanket folded on the arm of the couch, and the dishes from last night’s meal are still soaking in the sink. He wonders if he shouldn’t do something more to thank them, but decides against it, and slips out into the hall quietly. 

The walk back to the Impala isn’t bad. At least, not as bad as the walk to the apartment yesterday, when Dean couldn’t help the limp in his gait despite his best efforts to conceal it. In nothing but Cas’ t-shirt and jeans, though, the autumn air is cool enough to give him a chill. He pops open the trunk when he reaches his baby, places two of the books he picked out from Cas yesterday, and tosses his bloodied clothing in his duffel. It’s full – time to do laundry, then. Dean throws on a jacket before he goes. The garment smells like him, and for whatever reason, that’s unsettling in conjunction with Castiel’s clothing, which smells like the fancy soap Dean used in the shower yesterday, something grainy and scented like pine trees. 

There’s a Laundromat not far from here, another hole-in-the-wall joint in another compact strip mall, run by an immigrant family, he thinks. There’s nobody inside when he pushes his way in. The solitude is good. 

Dean pays for detergent from the little vending area in the corner and then for his wash, dumping the entire contents of the duffel into the washing machine before he sits on one of the hard benches arranged in the middle of the room. He stares at the cover of Watchmen where it sits in his lap for a moment before he opens it.

Only then, his phone vibrates.

Dean pulls it out – Ellen’s name flashes across the screen.

“What,” he answers.

“Boy, that is no way to speak to me,” she snips back, “Your brother called me a couple minutes ago. He wants to know where you are."

“He can shove it,” Dean says.

“I thought you’d say that,” Ellen sighs, “Look, Dean. You’re brothers. This feud you two have goin’ on is stupid, ‘specially since neither of you seem to want to fight anyway.”

“He doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Dean replies, a new edge to his voice.

Ellen goes quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment and then asks, “You really think that?”

“Goodbye, Ellen,” Dean says.

“Dean –”

But he hangs up.

Like magic it takes only an instant for the decent feelings from this morning to come crashing down around Dean’s ears. He doesn’t understand why the hell Ellen would tell him that Sam wants to see him, when she and Dean both know that that isn’t true. Sam said as much the last time that they saw each other – three years ago, an entire year before he went off to college.

Hell, Sam thinks that Dean missed his graduation.

He didn’t miss it.

Dean was fucked up six ways to Sunday from a john he’d had two entire nights before, walking funny with a split lip and a black eye – suffice it to say that he never saw that dude again – but he still drove to see Sammy graduate. Estrangement aside, graduation was something that Dean wouldn’t miss for the fucking world.

And he wouldn’t have let the dude fuck him up so bad if he didn’t need money for the gas that would take him the five and a half hours it took to reach Sioux Falls.

Sam was valedictorian. In spite of everything, in spite of being in pain and looking like shit, he was still so fucking proud. Dean didn’t graduate. He’d dropped out at sixteen and acquired his GED with a little shove from Bobby. He dropped out for Sam, and for his dad. They’d needed him, and Dean couldn’t take care of them if he was spending eight hours a day in a stuffy brick building learning shit he doubted he’d use.

Dean left as soon as Sam posed with his diploma, but he snapped pictures on some cheap gas station disposable camera to remember the occasion by.

Dean sighs and pockets his phone, trying to push it all away. But he can’t. He just sees Sam in his cap and gown, with all these fancy-ass tassels and stoles draped over his broad shoulders from all the things he’d excelled in, things that Dean wasn’t smart enough to do. He’s so fucking proud, and sometimes he wishes he could say that to Sam. But he knows that he shouldn’t. He frowns down at his lap, where Watchmen still sits open on the first page, and decides to read.

The book swallows him up so wholly that Dean forgets himself until the washing machine beeps to let him know his clothes are done. Dean dog-ears the corner of the page he’s on to mark his place, hoping that Castiel won’t mind, and stands to switch his laundry into the dryer.

He thinks he might understand why Cas likes books so much, now. When he read it, he didn’t have to think about Ellen’s call or Sam’s graduation or the wounds on his back that Alastair gave him, that he covered with Band-Aids from the first aid kit in Cas’ – or Gabriel’s, he guesses – bathroom cupboard.

Sure, as soon as his laundry interrupted him all Dean’s issues came flying back into his brain, but before that they were gone. He doesn’t know that they’ve ever been gone that long.

Dean thinks that maybe he likes to read.


	4. Our Blood and Guts Are Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm sorry to anyone that read the last chapter when it was riddled with errors. I fixed it within a couple of hours of it being posted, but due to my own impatience I had a formatting error that double spaced the entire thing, and also left out a bit in the bookstore scene where Cas reflects on his former desire to be an English teacher.
> 
> Second, this chapter has a pretty intense scene with Alastair in it and I want to make it clear that the way that Alastair handles his kinks is way into the realm of SO NOT OKAY and I do not see consensual BDSM in this way. The relationship between Alastair and Dean is abusive, period.
> 
> Third, this chapter does introduce the problem of Dean using alcohol as a coping mechanism.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter Track: Bullets – tunng**

**_Our Blood and Guts Are Out_ **

Sam starts his search with the easiest plan of action: Pulling his laptop over his legs and googling ‘Dean Winchester.’ He doesn’t hope for much, which turns out to be for the best, because nothing comes up but things that Sam already knew. It brings up a couple small-time articles describing some of Dean’s previous arrests, but there’s nothing new.

He doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.

“Sam?”

Beside him, Jessica shifts. She cracks open her eyes and asks, “Are you ever gonna go to sleep?”

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“Got nothing, huh?” she asks.

Sam shakes his head, “Just some old stuff. The newest thing’s his burglary. That was almost four years ago.”

In fact, that was what made everything go sour. Sam could deal with the shoplifting or the public intoxication, but Sam couldn’t take everything that started to happen afterward. And okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said what he did, and done what he did, but…

“Maybe no news is good news,” he concludes, “Looks like he’s staying out of trouble, at least.”

He lets out a long, world-weary exhale and closes his laptop, rolling over to set it on the ground beside his narrow bed. It’s a little small fitting both himself and Jess in a dorm bed, but they make do – and besides, Jess’ roommate is out for the night for work, waiting for some wedding party at a catering company. She won’t be back for at least another couple of hours.

Sam leans over and covers Jess’ mouth with his.

“Mm, what are you up to?” she laughs softly.

“Dunno,” he replies, “We still got a couple hours before your roomie’s back.”

Jess matches his grin with one of her own.

**X**

The first day of November comes to Lawrence with a flurry of cold air and ironclad clouds. Dean spends the morning in the Impala with his feet kicked up and Watchmen in his hands. He’s had it for a while now, but he’s almost done and – well, it was nice of Castiel to loan it to him. He’s tried to come up with something decent he could do in return, but he frankly doesn’t have a lot to offer in that department.

Halfway through the day, Dean parks his baby adjacent to a park and walks to clear his head. Nobody’s out on the playground, either because they’re in school or it’s too cold. He remembers liking when it was cold out when he was little, because he and Sam could play by themselves, and they didn’t have to share with other kids. He got along with other kids as a child just about as well as he gets along with people as an adult – he doesn’t, really.

Maybe when Dean returns the book, he could offer to suck Cas off. That’s one thing that he _knows_ he’s good at. No matter slowly he reads, or how he dropped out, or how he never did anything the way that he planned, he can make any person of any gender come quick and hard, and he can do it with a smile on his face.

It’s better than nothing.

Dean slumps onto a stone bench on the edge of the park’s bike path. A bronze placard dedicates it to some couple, but the words have been spray-painted on in sloppy red graffiti. His jacket staves off the worst of the chill, and he’s comfortable enough that he opens up Watchmen and sits back. Just a handful of pages left, and then he inevitably will see Castiel Novak again.

He doesn’t know what it is about that guy that gets under his skin. At first he thought it was the four crumpled hundreds Castiel threw at him without expecting anything in return. Then he thought maybe it was how he looked – the blue eyes, the hair that hasn’t seen a barber in a solid few months – but lately he’s been wondering if it isn’t something else. Cas knows what he does, but he doesn’t treat Dean like he’s dirty or worthless, the way a lot of other johns do – like they’re not fucking paying for sex or anything.

And it’s been like a week and a half since Dean crashed in Gabe’s apartment on the couch, but he still can’t get the look Cas had on his face when he asked Dean if he wanted to stay out of his head. It seemed like that was the hardest damn thing he’d ever done, and there Dean was, thinking he was trying to wheedle a free handie out of him or something. But no, the dude just wanted to watch Batman with somebody.

Dean shakes his head and returns to the book.

When he finishes the final panel on the final page, he almost feels like he has a hangover, similar to the feeling he gets when he walks out of the theatre after a good movie, but ten times more intense. He wonders if it’s that way for all good books, or just for comic books or graphic novels or whatever he’s supposed to call stuff like this. He doesn’t really remember reading anything like that when he was in prison, even though he did spend a solid amount of time with a book in his hands.

For a long while, he just sits on the bench and stares at the front cover. It crosses his mind to ring up Cas and ask him if this is how he felt after reading Watchmen, before he realizes that he doesn’t have Castiel’s phone number, and why would Dean want to call somebody anyway? He stands and shakes his head. With the book tucked under his arm, Dean heads back to the Impala, where he parked her on the outskirts of the area. Just as he unlocks the trunk to put Watchmen away, his phone vibrates in the back pocket of his jeans.

The name _Giant Dickweed_ lights the screen. It’s the name programed into the phone for Alastair.

In an instant, a hard wall of anger replaces the book hangover, and he flips open his phone.

“Hey,” Dean answers.

“Good afternoon,” Alastair replies, “Are you open tonight?”

His voice makes Dean’s throat go thick with discomfort as he recalls the last night he spent with Alastair. Damn, that was ugly. But he’s already blown through all his money on food, and one night by himself at the Lucky Lady so he could have himself a shower and a real mattress for a change. And he wanted to watch television – he didn’t have the brain capacity to read after being face-fucked into oblivion by this balding dude with a grip like a bear trap.

“Sure am,” Dean says.

“Excellent. May I expect you tonight in room three twenty?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “What are we doin’?”

“I quite enjoyed our earlier…session,” Alastair replies, “I thought I could pay another three hundred for something equally as satisfying.”

Dean wants to say no. He wants to tell him to fuck off. But he’s got about twenty bucks and half a bag of potato chips to his name right now, so he replies instead, “All right. I can do that.”

“Wonderful. See you at ten o’clock. Do not be late.”

The line goes dead, and Dean snaps his phone shut, teeth clenched tight together. If he wants to get through tonight, he’ll need a little help. He adjusts his jacket so it sits closer on his body and wishes he still had one of those scarves Jo knit him forever ago. She went through a phase, and made Dean and Sam just about every garment necessary for winter weather, and then some. Dean had them for a while after leaving Sioux Falls, but got angry every time he saw one of them. So he put them in a church donation box.

He walks to the liquor store in lieu of driving. By the time that he reaches the nearest place, his fingers are stiff and numb, the color high in his nose and cheeks. This weather’s gonna suck when the temperature starts to drop even more. Dean knows he should probably invest in another blanket so that he doesn’t freeze his ass off when he’s sleeping in his car.

Dean doesn’t have much in the way of cash, but he has enough for a bottle of Jim Beam, and that’s good enough for him. The cashier at the liquor store – Benny – thankfully does not bother him more than necessary, like he sometimes does, especially if Dean drives to the joint and parks outside. Benny’s got a thing for Dean’s Impala, and fine, he’s gotten a little protective over her.

Bottle of bourbon in his hand, he makes his way back to his car. He’ll drive it close to the hotel before he does any drinking – Dean’s learned a thing or two about drinking and getting behind a wheel, and he’s not particularly keen about learning them again, thank you very much. He parks a couple blocks away on a residential street, a narrow road that contains both apartment buildings and older, single-level houses.

Cas and Gabe don’t live far from here, he realizes. He thinks about returning Watchmen, but decides that he doesn’t want to. If Castiel asks him to stay again, Dean’ll have to leave. And Cas might ask him why. And even though Cas knows what Dean does for money, Dean doesn’t want to have to lay out the intimate details of getting fucked up by some assclown with a penchant for causing pain and a dislike for safewords.

Shit, even Dean knows that’s fucked up, but he doesn’t want a lecture, he doesn’t want concern, and above all, he does not want pity.

So Dean does not visit Gabriel’s apartment, and he does not return Cas’ copy of Watchmen. He cracks open the bottle of Jim Beam instead and takes a healthy first swig. The warmth of the alcohol settles over his pleasantly, the burn in his throat a solemn reminder of exactly what he is doing.

_You can’t keep getting plastered every time you don’t feel like dealing with shit, Dean. That’s not how it works._

Sam’s words echo in Dean’s brain, and he’s even angrier. Fuck Sam.

Leave it to Sam to grow up and get on Dean’s case about the one thing that makes him feel okay sometimes.

Goddamnit.

Dean tips back another swallow and reclines back in the seat of the Impala and tries not to think to hard on all the things that Sam said to him before he left. Because they fucking hurt, okay? Dean tried – and tries – really hard to make sure that Sam has everything that he needs to be the person that Dean never could be. And he gets it all thrown back in his face. That’s why he’ll never let Sam know that the deposits to his bank account are from him, because Sam would throw the money back in his face. Dean doesn’t think he could take getting his efforts stomped all over.

If Dean isn’t good at making sure that Sam gets what he needs, then what is he good at? Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

By the time that night rolls around, Dean has polished off the better part of the bottle, and is well and truly drunk. He’s glad of it, because he knows that this way he’ll be able to take whatever Alastair doles out. He can be good, and he’ll prove it.

Alastair is waiting for him when Dean knocks on the hotel room’s door. As usual he’s dressed to impress, an impeccably tailored suit snug around his shoulders and at his waist. If he wasn’t such a raging cockhead, Dean might have been tempted to say that Alastair is attractive. But he is a raging cockhead, and that alone makes him one ugly son of a bitch.

He frowns when Dean enters the room, nose wrinkling.

“You’re intoxicated.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, and offers up a watery grin.

“I don’t like that at all,” Alastair replies, a frown etching deep into his face, “Undress yourself and get on the bed.”

Dean stumbles to obey, tearing off his clothes and folding them best he can manage in his less-than-ideal state. He collapses onto the bed in a heap and climbs onto his hands and knees, wobbling under his own weight.

“You bandaged the marks I left you,” Alastair murmurs. The mattress sags behind Dean with his weight, and he commands lowly, “Turn around.”

The weight on the mattress lifts, and Dean submits, more out of curiosity than actual obedience. Alastair bends to retrieve his leather briefcase from its place on the ground and rests it on the edge of the bed. It clicks open, and Alastair removes two items: a set of leather restraints, and a flogger.

“Nope,” Dean says, and makes to slide off of the mattress.

Alastair catches him by the ankle, “I paid for you, boy. I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

“You can have your money back,” Dean spits, but when he tries to tear out of Alastair’s grip, Alastair surges up and yanks Dean up across the mattress. He cuffs one wrist in one of the leather restraints and stretches Dean’s arm to one edge of the bed.

The blur of the bourbon mixes with a fresh edge of fear, and Dean squirms underneath Alastair’s weight.

“Dude, stop it,” Dean protests, but when he takes a swing at him, Alastair catches his wrist and lifts his brow. Dean’s reflexes aren’t exactly at peak performance under the influence, then. Alastair cuffs him into the other restraint and stretches Dean’s arm across the expanse of the headboard. It hurts, but when Dean makes a muffled sound of pain, Alastair’s lips just curl into a smile.

When the first blow of the flogger lands across Dean’s chest, he breaks himself off from reality. He lets haze and fog fill his brain. He watches Alastair beat him, but he isn’t seeing him, not really. If he thinks too hard, he won’t survive.

But then Dean wonders, would it be bad if he didn’t survive? The world would only be short one stupid guy, and not even a particularly useful one, at that. Alastair and Dean’s other johns can get their kicks elsewhere, and he knows that. He just prefers it be him, partly for the money, but also because he wouldn’t wish this shit on anybody else, no matter who they were.

“Pay attention to me,” Alastair bites out, and his hand comes down on Dean’s face in a slap. The ring on Alastair’s finger bites into Dean’s skin, hard enough for Dean to cry out.

“Good,” Alastair drawls.

Dean whimpers when the flogger comes down on him again, and again, until finally he starts to cry in earnest. This was the worst idea. But fuck, he needs the money, or he’s going to go hungry, and he hates going hungry.

So Dean just takes it.

He takes it when Alastair breaks skin, takes it when Alastair scrapes his perfectly manicured nails over the wounds, and takes it when Alastair thrusts into him dry. It hurts, hurts so bad that all he can do is cut himself off, roll his eyes up at the ceiling, and pretend he’s someplace better. He’s drinking a beer on Superbowl Sunday at Bobby’s place, eating his way through a plate of nachos – or maybe he’s just a kid again on one of those night when Dad was gone and he and Sam could just be themselves, messing around and laughing way past their bedtime – or maybe, maybe he’s lounging on the couch in Gabriel’s apartment with awkward, quiet Cas, eating popcorn and watching cartoons.

Dean doesn’t even realize it’s over until Alastair hits him again. He releases Dean from the restraints and says, “You are excused.”

Dean stumbles to his clothes and trips trying to get back into them. Alastair laughs and Dean forces himself to shove away the temptation to flip him off.

God, he hurts.

“Sir, are you okay?” one of the hotel staff asks, when he makes his way down into the lobby.

“Fine,” he replies, but it comes out in a pathetic hiss that illustrates that Dean is very much anything but fine.

Dean walks past the Impala. He doesn’t even realize that he has until he’s entire half-block away from Gabriel’s apartment building. He should turn back and crash in the backseat of his baby, but he doesn’t. He traipses up the concrete stairs to the building with his fucked-up walk, and collapses against the side of the elevator, scaring the living shit out of some elderly woman and her tiny dog. She backs against the other wall of the elevator, and her eyes do not leave him for the entire ride up to Gabe and Cas’ floor.

When Dean knocks on their door, Gabe answers.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened to you?” he asks, and lets Dean in mechanically. Cas isn’t anywhere in sight.

“Got mugged,” he says.

“Dude, I’ll say,” Gabriel replies, and calls behind him, “Hey, um, Cas?”

There’s a loud rustle, and too much time later, Castiel emerges from his bedroom in long flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt. When he lays eyes on Dean, his lips part in surprise.

Dean salutes, “Evening.”

“Are you drunk?” Cas asks.

“Very,” Dean confirms.

Castiel lifts his gaze from Dean and moves his eyes to Gabriel. They share a look, something Dean might once have been able to do with Sam, and Cas swoops in. He lifts Dean up and says, “Come here. I’ll get you cleaned up. Gabe’ll make you something to eat, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says, and that’s it.

Cas guides Dean into the bathroom and has him sit on top of the toilet seat. Dean winces when he does, and Cas’ frown deepens. He smooths back a stray bit of Dean’s hair and asks, “What happened?”

“Cons of the job,” Dean laughs, and then starts to cry.

This alarms Cas into motion. He sets his jaw and pulls Dean’s jacket off. A sharp intake of breath greets the sight of the blood staining the chest of Dean’s t-shirt. Cas licks his lips and thumbs the hem of the shirt. Carefully, he peels it up.

Dean feels cold without it.

And embarrassed.

And a little scared, to be honest.

“Dude, are you gonna want something, ‘cause I really can’t take another dick tonight, seriously,” Dean slurs, or at least he thinks he does.

“Dean,” Cas says.

That’s all Dean needs. Cas isn’t gonna fuck with him, and that’s nice. Dean wipes the tears and snot off of his face with the back of his hand and comes away with a smear of blood. Awesome. His face his bleeding, too. He shakes his head and tips his gaze skyward before he says, “Thanks. For not – yeah.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies, as though Dean has actually made sense.

Castiel crouches to open the bathroom cupboard, a crease between his brows, and pulls out the same first aid kit that Dean used to patch up his back the last time he was here. He only used some Band-aids, but Cas pulls out some bottle of something, too, and some cotton balls. He douses the cotton with the shit and says, “This’ll sting.”

Dean starts to cry all over again when Cas touches him with the cotton ball.

Castiel withdraws, “Do you need me to stop?”

Dean shakes his head.

With gentle strokes, Castiel cleans the blood from the open wounds on Dean’s chest, and then from his face. The touch is delicate and controlled, barely there. He works through cleaning up Dean with such precision that it’s almost medical, almost like Cas has done this before. Before he bandages Dean, though, he asks quietly, redness high in his cheeks, “Do you, um. Need to shower? It seems like – you’re injured. Um. Anally?”

If Dean didn’t hurt so much, that might have been funny.

He just nods, and Cas excuses himself to collect some towels, which he places alongside the sink, as he did last time Dean used their shower. He says, “Use anything that you need. And, uh. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I promise I would do my best not to hurt you.”

“Thanks,” Dean just says, even though he doesn’t plan on letting Castiel anywhere near his naked ass.

“You should let me do the bandages,” Cas says, before Dean can close the door, “The ones on your back are crooked. And, wait.” He vanishes for a moment, and reappears shortly after with a bundle of clothing in his arms – a set of pajamas.

“M’not staying the night,” Dean says carefully.

“Yes, you are,” Cas says to this.

Dean peels the bandages from his back before he steps into the shower. He has to lean against the tile to keep himself upright, a sign that he should make this process as quick as possible so he doesn’t pass out or something equally as embarrassing.

He doesn’t bother washing his hair or skin, just cleans the fucking come out of his ass. The procedure stings and burns like hell, but Dean makes quick work of it. It doesn’t stop him from feeling dirty and fucked-up and seven different kinds of disgusted at himself. His chest feels like stone by the time that he shuts the water off, too heavy for him, but stuck inside him anyway.

This is the worst he’s ever been.

He should have just slept it off for a few days in the Impala. But he stupidly came here instead. Fuck, why is he such a fucking moron?

Dean smears a hand over his face and squeezes his eyes shut before he towels himself dry. He pulls the pajamas on over his legs, and wonders if he should really wait for Cas to patch him up, or if he should just do it himself. He doesn’t want to walk out there, and have everything out in the open and _exposed –_

A knock jerks Dean out of his brain.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice says, “Do you want me to do the bandages?”

Dean doesn’t reply, just opens the door.

Castiel makes him sit on the toilet again and rubs more but different gunk over the broken skin. He applies Band-aids to the worst of the damage, and when he’s finished, Dean doesn’t actually look too awful. Fucked up, yeah, but not as bad as he could be. He wriggles into Cas’ t-shirt as soon as he’s surveyed the damage in the mirror.

Dean has to take a breath to steel himself before he exits into the living room. He smells food, and his stomach grumbles in appreciation.

“C’mon, Dean-o,” Gabriel says when Dean rounds the corner, “Fried you up a burger. Should be good for your drunk ol’ self. Sorry about your face, man.”

“At least it’s not as bad as your face,” Dean shoots back.

Gabriel laughs, “Good as new, I see.”

Dean brandishes his middle finger at that, which only makes Gabe laugh harder. He sets a heavenly-smelling plate in front of Dean at the kitchen table and sets out a couple of condiments and a glass of water.

“I’m off to bed, boys,” Gabriel says, when everything’s set out, “You two behave yourselves, now.” He winks, and Dean flips him off again. He’s definitely sobered up enough to feel like an idiot, but not enough of an idiot to refuse the burger in front of him.

The first bite is so incredible that he actually moans at the taste.

Castiel just watches him, which is kind of creepy, but hey, it seems like the guy’s thing.

Mid-burger, Dean asks, “You didn’t – tell Gabriel, did you?”

Cas replies, “No. I wouldn’t do that without your permission.”

“Oh,” Dean says, “Thanks.”

Uncomfortable silence settles over them while Dean finishes his burger, which is fine, he can deal with that. He doesn’t think he could form sentences even if he wanted to. So he eats the food that Gabe made him, feels humiliated that he ended up here in his stupidity, and lets Castiel watch him do it all like staring like that is completely normal.

When Dean finishes his burger and moves to bring the dishes to the sink, Cas takes them from him and says, “You’ll take my bed tonight.” It’s not suggestion. It’s a command.

“But, dude,” Dean starts, but Cas holds up a hand.

“I’ll take my floor,” he says, “Just in case you need anything. Please do ask.”

So Cas rinses Dean’s dishes and places them in the dishwasher before leading them both back to his bedroom. It makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up even though he knows that Cas doesn’t want anything sexual from him. God, how’d he get to the point where bedrooms mess with his head? That shit’s not healthy.

Castiel pulls a pillow off of his bed and a blanket out of his closet. He lays them on the floor, and Dean sits on the edge of Cas’ mattress, awkward. He asks, “Dude, are you sure?”

“Positive,” is all that Castiel says.

Dean shifts onto his back with a wince of pain and rests his hands underneath his head. He’s definitely more sober now, and sober enough to realize the consequences of what he’s done tonight. He’s let Gabe and Cas see him at his weakest point, and now they know just how fucking disgusting he is. Chances are, as soon as morning hits, Dean’ll be ushered out of the apartment and that’ll be that. No more of them. Not that they were even friends.

Were they?

Nah. He doesn’t think so.

People don’t make friends with him. They never have. Throughout their constant moves and stints in different high schools, one thing was clear, and that’s that Dean was _that kid_ , the troublemaker, and the one that parents didn’t want their precious offspring hanging around for fear of Dean’s bad influence.

Yeah, he’s always been a stray dog.

“Dean,” he hears a sleepy mumble from the floor, “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Dean glances over at the blanket-covered lump on the floor, and is met by two blue eyes looking right back at him.

“Fine, fine,” he says, and rolls onto his side, so he doesn’t have to look at Castiel anymore.

But he can still feel blue eyes burning on his back.

**X**

“Easy on the coffee, Cassie,” Gabriel says, the following morning.

Dean remains dead to the world in Castiel’s bedroom – a miracle, if you ask him. Cas, meanwhile, could hardly sleep with his prosthetic still strapped to his leg. He hates wearing it for extended periods of time. It makes him sore and grouchy, and right now it’s killing him. Cas would love nothing more than to take his leg off and throw it across the room.

But he still doesn’t want Dean to see him without it, because it’s hideous.

And Dean’s a stranger.

Sort of.

Maybe not.

Dean has always wanted to read Watchmen and used to watch the original Batman movie with his little brother Sammy when they were children. Those are not things that Cas would know about a stranger.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Gabriel asks, brows high on his head.

Castiel ignores his brother’s earlier warning to lay off the coffee and pours himself his third mug of the morning. He’s going to need it to get through today – Kali is supposed to be over this afternoon, which means several hours of Castiel locked in his bedroom with headphones stuffed in his ears and a desperate wish that his brother didn’t love sex quite as much as he does.

He shrugs and sits beside Gabriel on the couch. On the television, a cartoon is playing on mute. Castiel doesn’t understand the purpose of this, but Gabe mouths along to some of the lines, so perhaps he doesn’t need the sound to enjoy watching it.

“C’mon,” Gabe urges.

Cas stares.

“You didn’t have a nightmare last night,” Gabriel goes on, “Is it ‘cause you and Dean did the nasty?”

“No.”

“Perhaps some snuggling was involved?”

“No, I slept on the floor.”

“Yeesh, no wonder you’re such a pill this morning,” Gabriel replies, “But seriously. You – have a thing. I can tell. I know these things.”

“I do not have a thing,” insists Castiel, but then admits, “but I do enjoy his company.”

Gabe nods, taking what he can wheedle out of his brother with a shit-eating grin on his stupid face. The smile fades when he glances to the door of Castiel’s bedroom, though, and he asks, “Is he all right? Seemed pretty messed up.”

“He was – is,” Cas confirms, “but I think he’ll be all right.”

“Man, I have no idea what that kid gets up to, but the amount of times I’ve seen him looking like that – in the shop, or like, in passing, you know – just be careful, Cas. I don’t want you to get involved with any bullshit that could get you in trouble,” Gabe says at last.

“I won’t,” Cas says, but he can’t promise that he wouldn’t beat the man that made Dean look like that within an inch of his life. He thinks Gabe might be worrying about gang activity, or perhaps drug running or other illegalities. It does not seem to have occurred to Gabe that what Dean _gets up to_ is nothing like he thinks it is. Half of Castiel wants to tell Gabriel and beg his brother to put Dean up in the apartment, just until Dean can get on his feet, but the other half knows just how angry Dean would be if Castiel told his story to people without his permission.

He promised he wouldn’t do that, in any case.

“Would it be okay,” Cas begins, but his voice dies in his throat.

“Would what be okay?” Gabe asks, studying him carefully over his coffee and bacon.

“I thought that maybe,” Cas exhales, “That maybe we could let him sleep here sometimes. And use our – your – shower.”

Gabe tilts his head, considering, and says, “Would that make you happy?”

“Yes,” Cas replies, “Very much so.”

“Then it’s fine, baby brother,” he says, and winks.

Dean emerges from the bedroom when Gabriel is rinsing the dishes and Castiel is engrossed in another one of his books on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket so the difference isn’t evident.

“How are you feeling?” asks Castiel. He doesn’t look fantastic by any means, his hair sticking up in several different directions, both eyes shadowed, and shoulders hunched against pain, but he does look better than he did when he stumbled into the apartment last night.

Dean rubs a hand through his hair, wincing when his thumb catches against his blackened eye. He says, “Kinda shitty.” He looks between Cas and Gabe like he’s waiting for them to say something, but when neither of them do, he goes on, “So, uh, I guess I’m booted out now?”

“Not until Gabriel has his girlfriend over,” Castiel replies.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Gabe sing-songs from the kitchen.

“Fine. His _booty call_ , or whatever he insists upon referring to her as,” Cas shoots back.

Dean snorts.

“And anyway, I suppose you _could_ stay while she’s here, but I’d highly advise against it,” Cas says, “The walls are not well-insulated.”

“So…you’re not kicking me out?” Dean asks.

“Why would we?” Cas says back.

“Um, I don’t know, asshole, maybe because I showed up on your doorstep super fucked up,” Dean replies.

“Why wouldn’t you show up here?” Cas asks, and inhales a shaky breath. He decides to say what he’s been thinking, “We’re sort of friends, aren’t we?” It makes Castiel nervous to have to ask that, which should be ridiculous, since he’s been to hell and back just about literally – but friends have never been his forte.

He was always too quiet, too weird, too queer. And his strict, Christian, military family did not help his social skills, especially as soon as he realized he liked men the way that his older brother Michael said that he was “supposed to” like women.

“…Are we?” Dean says. The face he makes sends a jolt of pain straight to Castiel’s heart. Dean’s brows are pinched together, eyes lowered to the ground, a frown twisting his lips. He looks like he thinks Castiel is playing a joke on him.

“I don’t see why not,” Cas replies.

“He wants your dick,” Gabriel says, poking his head out to grin at them.

“Gabe, will you shut up,” Castiel glares, and Gabriel cackles.

“Brothers, man,” Dean says, and a little smile lifts the corners of his lips.

“Seriously,” Castiel agrees, snapping his book shut and sliding it onto the coffee table. He offers up his own small smile back, “Would you like some coffee and bacon?”

“Ugh,” Dean says, “I don’t think I can do bacon. Coffee sounds nice, though.”

“Coffee it is.”


	5. An Unguarded Train of Thoughts

**Chapter Track: Half Asleep – School of Seven Bells**

**_An Unguarded Train of Thoughts_ **

The first time Dean scraps up the courage to ask if he can spend the night is a month and a half into his and Cas’ – _friendship_ – or whatever they’re calling it. Mostly they just drink beers and watch cartoons, and mostly those cartoons involve Batman. When they finished the original series, they moved onto Batman of the nineties, and then onto Batman Beyond, which Dean remembers watching a little of when he was younger.

Cas takes a while to answer the door when Dean knocks. Sometimes he does that, and other times, he answers right away. He still smiles when the apartment door opens, though, and greets, “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says, “Um, what are you up to?”

“I was tidying up a little for Gabriel,” Cas answers.

When Dean steps in, the sound of old, easy-listening music swallows him and he asks, “Christ, what _is_ this?”

Affronted, Castiel answers, “It’s Vera Lynn.”

“Dude, you need better taste in music,” Dean tells him, to which Castiel just rolls his eyes. Dean watches as he flits from place to place in the apartment, straightening the coffee table clutter, and wiping down the kitchen counters with a beaten-up rag and a bottle of Lysol.

“You, uh, need help?” asks Dean, which is stupid. Why would he volunteer for work that won’t get him anything, won’t get him paid?

“No, thank you,” Cas replies, “Would you like to start Batman Beyond? I can throw some popcorn in the microwave. Gabe’s out of beer but I could fix you some lemonade or something.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it,” Dean says, “Um, Cas?”

Cas peers around the corner and queries, “Yes?”

“Would it be cool if I, uh, spent the night?” he mumbles the last part, but Cas still seems to get the message.

“Of course,” Castiel says, “You’re always welcome. You know that. Would you like my bed or the couch?”

“Couch is fine,” Dean says, perturbed that Cas would offer him his own bed, again. As it stands Dean still hasn’t returned Castiel’s nice jeans or his Slaughterhouse Five (which is pretty good so far – though Dean is not very far into it, to be fair) t-shirt, or the pajamas he loaned him when he busted into their apartment piss-drunk and fucked up beyond belief. God, he’ll never live that down. Not that Gabe or Cas say anything about it – it’s just that he’s having trouble letting himself live it down, because, really, Dean?

Dean has, however, returned Watchmen, an act that led to a long discussion between him and Cas on the subject. It was kind of nice, actually. Dean did not realize Castiel had so many opinions about superheroes, but evidently, he does.

The smell of buttery popcorn wafts out from the kitchen, and moments later Dean hears the microwave ping. Cas emerges from the kitchen, bowl in hand, as Dean selects the next episode on the queue to watch. The way he walks to the couch is stiff and uncomfortable. Cas does that, sometimes.

“You okay, buddy?” Dean asks, when Cas lowers himself onto the couch with a look of concentration written across his features.

The concentration melts into something stricken and he says, “I’m fine. My – uh, leg. Gives me trouble. Sometimes.”

“Should I ask?” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel replies.

And that’s fine, Dean has shit that he doesn’t want anybody to ask about, either.

They’re close to completing this series (an event that has Cas fixated on the overuse of the word “schway”). Dean wonders what they’ll watch next. Maybe something Justice League. He saw those lined in up the instant queue, too, and wondered if Gabriel was a fan, or if Cas might be thinking ahead for future.

By the time that they line up the episode _Unmasked,_ Dean is relaxed. It takes him time still to unwind when he’s in Gabriel and Cas’ apartment. It’s starting to become something of a house to him if not a home, and that bothers him when he thinks too hard on it. His legs are sprawled on the coffee table, boots kicked off, jacket draped over the back of the couch – like he lives here. And Cas doesn’t tell him not to do those things, either.

There’s a kid stuck in a fire in this episode. It makes the back of Dean’s neck prickle, and he shifts uneasily, even though he knows that Terry’ll save the kid. He’s an adult, for fuck’s sake, he should be able to see cartoon flames without thinking about his mom.

Well, there it goes.

Dean rubs a hand over his face and glances away from the television screen. It takes him several minutes to realize that Castiel has paused the episode and is staring at him. He looks like perhaps he said something and Dean didn’t hear it, so Dean says, “What?”

“I asked if you were going to be all right,” Castiel replies patiently.

“Yeah, peachy,” Dean replies, “Can we turn it off?”

“Okay,” Castiel says, and he doesn’t press Dean for answers. He doesn’t ask why Dean wants a fucking episode of Batman goddamn Beyond turned off, or why he’s throwing a little shit fit over it. He just looks at Dean and then, after a stretch of silence, inquires, “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?”

“Dude, ew,” Dean says.

“I’d offer you beer if we had any,” Cas goes on.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean waves him off, “It’s – it’s not important.” It physically hurts Dean to say that, because fuck, if there’s one thing that’s important, it’s his mom.

Cas doesn’t point out this obvious flaw in Dean’s statement, but he does keep staring at Dean like he knows he’s full of shit, so Dean figures he has to say _something_ , at least. It’s not fair to ruin their night and not explain why, right?

“I wanted to be a fireman when I was a kid,” Dean says, which isn’t exactly what he was thinking of saying, but it’s what comes out first.

“Why didn’t you pursue that?” asks Cas.

Dean shrugs, “I dunno, man. I’d probably suck at it. I suck at most things.”

“I think you suck at very few things,” Castiel says to this.

“Sugar, I suck _a lot_ of things,” Dean teases back, and winks, but Cas doesn’t seem to find it as funny as Dean does. He lets out a long exhale and finally surrenders, “It was…’cause of my mom.”

“Your mom,” Cas echoes.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, “I’m not gettin’ all Oprah in here, but long story short, she got killed in a fire and it fucked up my family like nuts. So, that’s that.”

Cas doesn’t speak for a long time. When he makes a move, all he does is lean over just a little, and squeeze Dean’s shoulder. He seems to sense that Dean’s done chatting about his sordid past, though, because what he says next is, “I wanted to be a teacher.”

“So why didn’t you?” Dean asks.

“It wasn’t tradition,” Castiel responds, “Gabe and I – and our sister Anna, sometimes – we’re the ‘black sheep’ of the family, so to speak. Gabriel especially. He never did like doing what he was told. Our father was military, and expected all of us to follow in his footsteps, and, well. Gabriel ran away at eighteen and landed here. As I understand it, he saved until he could start his own business. He likes sweets and coffee, and he likes making people happy, I think. So he started his shop.”

Gabriel always seems so cheerful. It’s off-putting to hear him being referred to as an outcast of the family.

“What about you?” Dean asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I followed in my father’s footsteps,” Cas answers, voice hard.

Dean surveys Cas for a long second and then asks, “Is that what’s up with your leg? Some military shit?”

Castiel glances sharply at his leg and lets his gaze linger there for a moment before he lifts his eyes back up to Dean and clears his throat. He answers, “Yes. I…got shot. I’m fine. But it does bother me sometimes.”

Dean would bet a pretty fuckin’ penny that there’s more to that story, but as Cas sensed Dean was done talking, Dean can tell that this is the end of Cas’ big sad story. All that’s left unsaid hangs heavy in the air between them, so thick he can almost taste all the words. But neither of them speaks. They just breathe back in their own tales.

“Gabe got any liquor around here?” Dean asks finally.

“I think so, but…are you sure you should be drinking?” Cas asks, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“Man, if there is one thing I am sure of right now, it’s that we need alcohol,” Dean says.

This is how Dean and Cas end up stupidly tanked-up, playing a very drunk round of gin rummy. Cas isn’t very good at cards, but then, neither is Dean when he’s this wasted. He also forgot to write down the scores of the last few rounds, so he has no idea which one of them is winning. They’re so far gone and laughing that when Castiel’s fancy smartphone rings, Dean jerks in surprise and sends playing cards spraying across the living room carpet. He laughs harder at that, but quiets when Cas waves his hand at him to shut up.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, when Cas sets his phone back down on the coffee table.

“Nothing serious,” Cas smiles, and his eyes crinkle around the corners, “Gabriel’s decided to spend the night with Kali tonight, so we have the place to ourselves. Would you like to sleep in Gabriel’s bed in lieu of the couch?”

“In Lou of the – nevermind. Dude, no, I have no idea where that guy has been,” Dean says, “No offense.”

“None taken. I also do not know where Gabe has been,” Cas says, “Or the last time he washed his bedding.”

“Gnarly,” remarks Dean.

Together they clean up the mess of cards, stacking them back into the package, which Cas puts away in an entire cabinet full of board games, which he explains with, “Gabriel is fond of games.”

Dean has his own pajamas this time – he has to trudge down to the Impala to collect them, where he parked her in the complex’s lot. He brings up Cas’ pajamas, too, but leaves the t-shirt and jeans behind, selfishly, because he likes them and kind of doesn’t want to give them back.

“Here,” Dean says, when he returns, passing Cas his pajama pants and the t-shirt, “I kind of didn’t wash them, sorry. I haven’t had a chance to go to the Laundromat and, uh. Sorry I forgot your other clothes. I meant to grab them.” Liar.

“That’s all right,” Cas says back, “You can keep them, if you’d like. I’ve, uh. Put on some weight since I came home, so the jeans don’t fit, really.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean says, secretly both delighted and embarrassed that he gets to get Cas’ clothes and that he wanted to keep them so much in the first place.

Cas brings Dean a pillow from his bed and retrieves a familiar fleece blanket from the linen closet while Dean uses the bathroom to change into his pajamas. His chest is healing up nicely, and at the rate that his back is going, he thinks the marks will be nothing but faint scars – eventually. For now, they’re pink and stretched and ugly. He’s relieved when he pulls his shirt over his head and they disappear behind the worn cotton of an old Led Zeppelin tee.

Most of the lights are out when Dean emerges from the bathroom, everything but the single round ceiling lamp that lights the short hallway. Dean jumps when he sees Cas leaning against the wall.

“Sorry,” Cas says, “I didn’t meant to frighten you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving my door open. If you need anything, please feel free to wake me up.”

“I’ll be fine, dude,” Dean assures him.

“Goodnight,” Cas says, after a beat of silence.

“G’night, man,” Dean replies.

Dean sits down on the couch. Cas’ bedroom door creaks most of the way closed, but doesn’t shut, and even though Dean doesn’t think that he would need anything in the middle of the night, it still feels nice to know that there’s an offer. He shifts down onto the couch, adjusting Cas’ pillow so that it sits comfortably against the armrest. The blue and white striped pillowcase is soft and smells like Cas, that odd combination of dudely pine soap and expensive shampoo and something just-Cas. Dean buries his nose in it and breathes it in before he pulls the blanket up over his body.

**X**

Dean shifts awake when a noise jostles him from his dream, something involving pine trees and striped pillowcases and driving the Impala for miles and miles. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark in the apartment's living room, and hears the same noise a second time, a pained whimper. He sits up and combs both his hands back through his hair, but when he hears restless shifting and more noise from the bedroom, he stands to investigate.

Cas tosses in his bed, his blankets tangled up around his legs. A sheen of sweat reflects the dim moonlight on his forehead, and his face is twisted in pain.

He talks to himself, clawing desperately at the sheets, but all Dean can really make out is _no, no, no, no._ Chanting the word, over and over again.

“Cas?” Dean ventures, hesitating. He takes another step forward.

Castiel doesn’t snap out of it, just continues to moan and whimper out his nightmare. Dean gnaws on his lower lip and wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

And then Cas shouts. It isn’t just a yell, it’s pain, and it takes Dean so by surprise that he steps back and knocks a couple of stray books onto the floor.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and this time puts his hands against the mattress and shakes it, “Cas, buddy, wake up.”

Cas just continues to yell.

Dean grabs his shoulders and jostles him, “Dude, Cas, snap out of it.”

Cas’ eyes fly open, wide and terrified. He surveys the bedroom for a moment, irises flying from corner to corner before his gaze finally settles on Dean.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, too stunned to say much else.

Cas bursts into tears.

“Sorry,” he cries into his arm, “Fuck, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to see this, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.”

“Dude, it’s okay,” Dean says, and spots Cas’ smartphone where it’s plugged into the wall, “I’m gonna call Gabriel, okay? I’ll tell him to get over here and then, um – I’ll make tea?” He hopes Castiel likes tea, anyway. He offered it to Dean earlier and Gabe doesn’t seem the type.

Castiel just nods, and Dean says, “I’ll be right back,” before he slips out with Cas’ phone in hand.

Gabe picks up on the fourth ring and answers groggily, “What?”

“Gabe?” Dean says, “It’s Dean. Um. Cas, had a nightmare. I think? He seems pretty messed up. Maybe you should get over here.”

“Shit,” Gabe mutters. Dean hears him shift and then muffled voices on the other end, one much more feminine and sexy-sounding than Gabriel’s. A few moments later, Gabriel speaks into the receiver again, “I’ll be there in like, fifteen minutes. Just – sit with him, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says, but Gabriel has already hung up.

Dean sticks a mug of water in the microwave and bangs around the cabinets until he finds a box of tea. He isn’t sure what kind it is but it has some bears on the box and smells okay. When the mug comes out, it’s hot, but Dean takes it in his palms anyway and tosses a teabag in.

When he returns to Cas’ bedroom, Cas is sitting cross-legged, his hands in his hair. There are tear tracks on his face and deep shadows under his eyes, but he isn’t crying anymore.

“I brought tea,” Dean awkwardly announces, and shuffles forward to hand the mug over, “It’s kinda hot.”

Cas takes the tea from Dean and says nothing, so Dean asks, “Do you need anything?”

The stare that Cas gives him unsettles Dean down to the core, until Castiel lowers his eyes and asks, voice gruff and thick with sleep, “Could you. Sit with me – please?”

“Sure,” Dean replies, because if that’s all Cas wants after all the shit he’s done for Dean, then hell, he can do that. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, and reaches out to squeeze Cas’ arm.

Cas flinches back, and Dean pulls his hand away.

Dean doesn’t think he should let them sit in pained silence, though, so he says, “I used to get nightmares after my mom died.”

Cas doesn’t respond, but he does nod, which Dean takes as a sign to feel free to go on, “I was so scared of fire for so fucking long and – I guess, even now, it puts me on edge. I dunno, I think if things went differently, I’d still wanna be a firefighter. Shit makes me nervous, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to do what I couldn’t back then. I mean, if I’d been strong enough, I would have gone back for my mom, but…” Dean’s voice breaks, “I was only four, so there’s really nothing I could do.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Dean sighs, because it’s always a bad idea when people know things about you. They can use it to hurt you, and that always fucking sucks a fat one.

“I didn’t know my mom,” Cas says quietly. His voice shakes so hard that it makes Dean’s chest hurt, “I’m the youngest. She died giving birth.”

“We’re a fucking mess, aren’t we?” Dean says. He laughs at the statement, but there’s no mirth in it, and within minutes he falls flat again.

But he should keep talking. Dean wracks his mind for something to say, and ends up saying, “You know, Batman really is my favorite superhero. I mean, not just because he has a cool fuckin’ car and a sweet hideout, but like. He helps people. But he fucks up too. I could never get too into Superman ‘cause it seemed like he was so perfect. But Batman. Batman’s been through some shit. Even if he is a rich asshole.”

Castiel cocks his head curiously at Dean, and then edges a little closer to him. It isn’t much, only a few inches, but Dean can feel Cas’ body heat that much more, and the prickling awareness of his presence at the base of Dean’s skull has erupted into a full-body feeling of Cas being _there._ Dean dislikes when people edge into his personal space, but he knows that Cas needs something like this right now, too. And Gabriel asked him to sit with Cas until he got there.

“I am also fond of Batman,” Cas says, finally.

No more than thirty seconds later, they hear the front door to the apartment burst open. Gabriel appears in the doorway, breathing heavily, and asks, “Cas, are you okay?”

Cas moves back away from Dean and says, “I think I’m fine now. Thank you for coming home, though.”

Gabe glances from his brother to Dean and back again, and then runs a hand through his long, sandy hair. He nods, “Yeah. No problem, kiddo.”

“Please refrain from calling me kiddo,” Cas replies, in a tone that suggests to Dean that this is not the first time that Castiel has had to request this.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel says, “You need anything else? A snack, or –” he eyes the both of them, “a condom?”

“Jesus, Gabe,” Dean complains, at the same time that Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Just messing with you guys,” Gabriel smiles, though the expression soon fades and his voice goes serious again, “Cas, I’ll leave my door open. If you need me, just holler, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Cas says, quiet.

Dean looks away from them at that, gaze fixed pointedly at his hands. He tries not to think of Sam, but does anyway, because he hates himself. Sammy never remembered mom, or the fire. He didn’t get nightmares about it the way Dean did when he was a kid – but even when bad dreams did plague him, Dean tried to stay quiet about it, because his dad told him that he was supposed to be brave. He was supposed to be strong. _You’re a man_ , he’d say. What a fucked up thing to tell a six-year-old kid.

But John was just trying to do his best, and Dean knows that. Without Mary he was missing half of himself, like he couldn’t be a whole person alone. It made John resentful, and it made him drink, and it made him forget about his sons.

Dean clenches his fists.

“Dean?”

And then jerks out of the memories to look back at Cas.

“I think I’m ready to go back to sleep now,” Cas says quietly.

“Oh,” Dean says, “Sorry, dude, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No – I mean, thank you. For, uh. Handling me,” Cas says.

“Dude,” Dean replies, “Payin’ it forward, man. You sleep well.”

“You too.”

**X**

After Cas’ nightmare, things between them shift. They’re closer, maybe, but also more cautious. Both Dean and Castiel know more about each other than they ever intended the other to know, and it makes them each equally edgy.

And yet, Dean’s more comfortable around Cas than he’s been around another person in years, since he left Sioux Falls. It should be strange that Castiel makes Dean equal parts anxious and relaxed, but it doesn’t _feel_ strange, and Dean takes to it like a duck to water. He and Castiel watch cartoons and drink together, play card games and swap music – Dean still isn’t sure about Vera Lynn, but since Cas is so fond of her, he gives her a shot.

Dean gets his second book hangover when he finishes Slaughterhouse Five.

When he returns the book, he and Cas don’t actually speak much. Dean gathers that the book makes Cas think of his time as a soldier, and that he doesn’t really like to talk about it. That’s okay, though, because Dean has so many things he never wants to discuss – he figures he can respect the few that Castiel doesn’t want to talk about, too.

Once, Dean falls asleep when they’re watching one of Cas’ favorite movies – Fantastic Mr. Fox – on Cas’ shoulder. Cas doesn’t bother to move him, which leads to too much embarrassed babbling and apology from Dean and assurance from Cas that it’s okay, and he doesn’t mind being a pillow for a little while.

And then Dean stops turning tricks as much as he used to. He ignores three phone calls from Alastair, letting them go directly to voicemail, which he doesn’t bother to check, because he has better shit to do than to listen to that dickhead. He’s done a couple of blow jobs and handies for pocket money, but nothing serious, since he’s mostly been eating well at the apartment, and also mostly sleeping there.

 _That_ is one thing that definitely makes Dean uncomfortable. He shouldn’t give himself over so wholly to two people that he’s only known for a couple of months. Well, he’s technically known Gabe for a couple of years, but nothing as intimate as the-guy-that-crashes-on-his-couch until recently. And Dean doubts he would ever have gotten friendly with Gabriel if it hadn’t been for his brother. His strange, quiet brother, that likes science fiction books and Batman and got shot in the leg overseas.

Christ, Dean wishes he knew why Castiel gets under his skin the way that he does.

One evening mid-December, Dean kicks back in the Impala, parked in a grocery store parking lot. He hasn’t been over to the apartment in a couple of days, and it’s starting to snow tonight. That means it’ll be cold as balls in his car, and he doesn’t feel like dealing with it.

Man, he’s gone soft.

He decides to take something over to the apartment – a gift, or a bribe, or something – a ten dollar pie from inside the grocery store. It’s apple, because that just sounds nice. Way back when, Dean might have made Cas a pie. He knows how to make it and he does it well, but being that he lacks an oven and the essential ingredients, he figures store-bought is the way to go.

Gabriel answers when he knocks, and laughs at Dean, who’s wet from the snow and carefully cradling a plastic-wrapped pie underneath his leather jacket.

“Shut up, dude,” Dean says, “Wish I could’ve made you some, but this is the best I got,” he goes on, placing the pie on the kitchen counter.

“No ice cream?” Gabriel asks.

“You don’t have any?” Dean says back.

“Nah,” Gabe claps him on the shoulder, “I’ll run out and grab a tub. We can’t have apple pie without ice cream.” He retreats back toward his bedroom and emerges in an ugly patterned sweater and boots.

Gabriel knocks on Cas’ door and smirks over at Dean, “Castiel, you’ve got a gentleman caller.”

Dean rolls his eyes, hard.

Cas tumbles out of his room at the same moment that Gabriel slips out the front. Cas eyes the door as it closes behind his brother and asks, “Where the hell is he going?”

“I brought pie,” Dean offers, “and he said we couldn’t eat it without ice cream.”

“That sounds about right,” Cas says, “Are you going to take the couch tonight?”

“If that’s cool with you, dude,” Dean says.

“It always is,” Cas responds, a tiny smile on his mouth.

Dean kicks off his boots and strips away his jacket, grateful for the heated apartment as he settles onto the couch and reaches for the remote. Cas joins him on the other side and watches as Dean flicks through Netflix. Currently, they’re working through Avatar: The Last Airbender, a show that Dean remembers being around slightly after his childhood, but current enough that he used to see advertisements for it when he watched other stuff at Bobby’s place.

“Aang is very mature for his age,” remarks Cas.

Dean glances over at him, “Dude, he’s one hundred and twelve.”

“Only technically,” Cas replies, which makes both of them laugh.

An episode and a half in, Cas stands and makes them popcorn, the kind with the cheese powder because Dean once off-handedly commented that he used to love eating that junk when he and Sam watched shit together – the next time Dean came to the apartment, Castiel had a box of cheesy popcorn in the snack cabinet. Dean doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Fuck, my leg is murdering me today,” complains Cas. He massages two fingers into the skin above his knee, through the sweatpants on his hips. He blows all the air out of his lungs and rolls up the leg of his pants and –

“Holy shit,” Dean says, “Dude, you’re missing your fucking leg. You said you got shot, not that you were missing you entire goddamn leg.”

A troubled, gob-smacked look makes Cas go wide in the eyes, and he lets the leg of his pants slip back down to the ankle, over the argyle socks he has rolled over his legs – the real one and the fake one.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says.

Abruptly many things make sense – Cas’ stiff walk, his concentration, how he sometimes doesn’t answer the door for several minutes, why he’s always wearing fucking socks, even when it’s too hot inside the apartment for them.

Cas isn’t staring at Dean, now, he’s staring at his leg. A frown deepens lines on his face, and when he glances back up to meet Dean’s eyes, there’s anger in his expression. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he says, “I think you need to leave.”

“What?”

“Leave!” Cas shouts. He picks up his empty beer bottle from the coffee table and hurls it across the room. It smashes into pieces against a poster of some Van Gogh piece.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“Get _the fuck_ out of my apartment,” Cas growls.

Dean nods.

Yeah, this was overdue. Dean typically fucks things up before he’s been cool with a guy for like, three months. It was time. He shoves his boots onto his feet without lacing them, and tosses his jacket back onto his shoulder, zipping it to his chin and pulling the collar high up around his neck.

It’s gonna be a cold night.

On the way out of the building, Dean spots Gabriel with a plastic grocery bag swinging in his hand. He waves, but frowns when Dean doesn’t do the same.

“What the heck happened?” he asks.

“Why don’t you ask your brother?” Dean mutters, and shoves past Gabriel, toward his snowed-on Impala.

Yeah, one cold fucking night.


	6. Keep Your Head Up

**Chapter Track: Stubborn Love – The Lumineers**

**_Keep Your Head Up_ **

At first, Dean doesn’t do much. He returns to sleeping in the Impala, which fucks up his back something awful, provides a couple of services for some lonely truckers passing through, and thinks about how Christmas is coming and how he should really send Sammy more money in honor of the holidays.

When he finds one of Castiel’s stupid science fiction novels underneath one of his dirty t-shirts in the trunk of the Impala, Dean gets so angry that he throws it across the parking lot he’s in, where it lands in a pile of dirty snow. Immediate guilt hits him, and he crosses the tarmac to retrieve it. It’s a little damp, but nothing serious. He dries what he can with the edge of his t-shirt.

And instantly, a stupid sense of longing fills him.

Dean doesn’t make friends. Or maybe he has, and he just ruined those friendships. He thinks he and Bobby were friends, but they haven’t spoken since he took off. He and Ellen were friends, but now every time that he hears her voice, he bites her head off. He doesn’t speak to Jo or Sam or Ash or any of those guys – and in between? During his school days? He had people he made out with, and there was one kid he blew behind the gym a few short months before he dropped out. They were sort of chummy for a while, trading cigarettes and shitty-family stories. But then the dude did a one-eighty and started treating him like shit.

Castiel never did anything like that. And okay, so he lied about his leg – which is _missing_ , by the way. But okay, Dean gets it. He doesn’t want to have to discuss the life he left behind in Sioux Falls, and he’d lie to avoid talking about it. Even to Cas.

But Cas…he – fuck him, Cas was his friend. He loaned Dean books and watched Batman with him and shared music with him even though their taste is nothing alike.

Like hell Dean is gonna take this shit sitting down.

When people have friends, they fight for him. That’s how it is in the movies – and he’s not delusional, his life is nothing like a movie – but it’s still how he’s gonna play this round.

The first time that Dean calls Castiel, he gets his voicemail. Dean leaves a gruff apology message.

He doesn’t want to seem weird, so he waits a day in between his next call, which also goes to voicemail.

That asshole is ignoring him.

Well, fine. If Castiel wants to play dirty, then Dean will too.

This is how Dean ends up on the doorstep of Gabriel’s apartment mid-afternoon one Wednesday, banging on the door.

“Cas, let me in,” he calls. Nobody answers.

“I swear to God, dude, just hear me out,” he goes on.

A beat passes, and then Castiel answers, voice tired, but steady enough to be heard through the door, “Leave me alone, Dean.”

“Fuck you, let me in,” Dean says back.

“No.”

“Come on, man.”

Castiel does not answer this, and instead the sound of Vera Lynn leaks through the crack between the apartment door and cheap carpet, volume turned all the way up. Dean lingers for about a minute and a half before his shoulders slump and he sighs, heading back to the Impala.

That night he lets some drunk guy in a beanie fuck him, which gets him two hundred and a sore ass, but at least he’s got something to deposit for Sam for Christmas.

When Dean wakes up the following day, he’s furious all over again.

Fine, fucking fine. He might miss Cas. _Might_.

And okay, maybe this might-miss-Cas thing lands Dean at the front of Trickster Coffee, ready to harangue Castiel however it takes to get him to hang out again.

But Castiel is not in the corner where he sits sometimes. The round, two-person table is empty. Dean rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated exhale. The spell is broken, however, when Gabe’s voice smacks him from his mood.

“Dean, what’s up?”

He doesn’t sound nearly as enthusiastic as he typically is.

Wait.

Gabriel.

“Gabriel, get your fucking brother to talk to me,” Dean snaps. A couple of patrons glance to them over their lattes and whatever-inos.

“I can’t,” Gabriel says shortly.

“Why the hell not?” demands Dean.

“Because you hurt his fucking feelings, Dean!” Gabe bites back. Dean shifts away, taken aback. He’s never heard Gabe raise his voice, not even once, unless shouting out of excitement, or something. Before Dean can even process Gabe’s words, the man goes on with an angry flourish of his hand, “Do you know how goddamned sensitive he is about that shit? Hell, I’m his own brother and he wouldn’t walk around without the prosthetic when I was around – for months, bucko. Months of physical therapy. He hates it, and trust me when I say that Cas doesn’t hate a whole lot.”

“I was surprised, man, what was I supposed to do?” Dean says, “I’ve been trying to fucking say I’m sorry, and he won’t even let me do that.”

Gabe’s lips twist into an ugly expression.

“You’re really worked up about this, huh?” he asks Dean.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“I don’t know, dude,” he says back, “I don’t…I don’t know.”

Gabriel studies him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Dean can’t remember the last time that somebody stared at him this way, like they’re trying to puzzle him out in too short an amount of time. Bobby’s looked at him like this a handful of times, and once or twice Ellen, and Sam too many times to count.

“Say I give you my keys to the apartment,” Gabriel says, and holds up a hand when Dean opens his mouth, “ _Say_ I give you the keys. What are you going to do?”

Yell at Cas. Tell him he’s being stupid.

Maybe apologize. God, he hates apologizing. It means he fucked up, and he hates acknowledging that he’s fucked up. Especially when he has to say it to the face of somebody that matters to him.

“I don’t even fucking know, man,” Dean says, “I’ve never had a goddamn friend before. I don’t know what to do with one now.”

Gabe shakes his head and mutters, “I am going to deeply regret this.”

He unhooks one key from his key ring and pushes it across the counter. When Dean reaches for it, Gabe pins it to the counter with a single finger. He says, “If you fuck him up, Dean-o, I will find you, grind you into tiny little pieces, and sprinkle you over my breakfast cereal. You capisce?”

“I capisce,” Dean says, and snatches the key from Gabriel’s grip, “Thanks, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel says, and looks like he thinks he’s making an awful decision.

Dean returns to the Impala, and only realizes he’s nervous when he’s behind the wheel and halfway between Trickster and Gabriel’s apartment. Goddamnit, he doesn’t do apologies. But he wants this. Shit, he needs this.

Dean wishes he didn’t _need_ anything, but God, he does. He tries to ignore the way that his hands shake when he parks the Impala in the complex’s lot. Instead of the elevator, he takes the stairs, just to give him some more time to work through all this bullshit in his head.

Cas is his friend, and that’s the thing that he’s sure about. The rest of it – that’s all complicated and twisted up in his head. Even his gut doesn’t know what to do, other than follow his boot-clad feet to the apartment and stroll in. Beyond that, this will be improvisation.

Son of a bitch. He’s at the door. Dean swallows the knot in his throat, tells himself to nut up, and fits Gabriel’s key into the lock. It turns open with a _click._ He pushes inside, and immediately sees Castiel curled up on the couch. A documentary of some kind plays on the television, but he’s looking straight at Dean, not at the screen.

“How in God’s name did you get in here?” Castiel asks.

Dean holds up the key and says, “Your brother let me.”

“Gabriel’s a dick.”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Dean agrees. Cas isn’t wearing his prosthetic, Dean sees. Underneath the plaid material of his pajamas, his right thigh ends and leaves only empty space. Dean wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and adds, “Cas, I fucked up, man.”

Cas stares him down, and that’s normal enough, so Dean goes on, “I was surprised, dude, okay? I didn’t – fuck me, I don’t know. Leg or no leg, or even a couple extra legs, I don’t give a shit. I just wanna hang out again.”

At this, Castiel pauses the documentary on the TV and sits up. He inclines his head at the unoccupied side of the couch, and Dean sits obediently. He glances from the empty space in his pajamas and then back up at Dean and says, “I would like to spend time with you again too.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

“But.”

…and inhales his anxiety back in.

“But you should look at the thing before you make any decisions,” Cas says firmly, and levels his chin.

“What, your leg?”

“Yes.”

Dean watches Cas roll up the leg of his pajamas.

His leg is a fucking mess. Amputated, yeah. What he didn’t expect is the mass of scar tissue, the damage left in the wake of burns so bad he doesn’t even want to think of what it must have felt like. Cas’ skin is warped and pink-purple.

“Um,” Dean manages, after the painful stretch of silence, “Could I –”

“By all means.”

Dean reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers across the tissue. It feels strange, uneven but still smooth under his touch. Cas sits stiffly while Dean traces the horrible whorls and patchy areas, skin grafted and pieced back together.

Instead of withdrawing his hand, he launches forward and scoops Cas up in a hard hug. Cas freezes at first, but soon relaxes. His arms shift to wrap around Dean’s middle, and he holds Dean back just as tightly as Dean holds him. They remain that way for a long time – Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck, and Dean strokes his palm over Cas’ spine. The familiar scent of his pine soap and pricey shampoo wafts up and surrounds him, and with that all the nerves and reservations Dean had about coming back in here fade and drift away.

When they pull away, the room feels lighter.

“I’m sorry that I threw a beer bottle at your head,” Castiel says.

“That was supposed to hit my head?” Dean asks, cocking a brow, “Dude, your aim sucks.”

Cas smirks and shoves at Dean’s shoulder. Dean laughs, and – Christ, he feels so much better than he has in days.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you do on Christmas?” asks Castiel.

“Uh,” Dean says, “Usually I grab some Chinese and hang around? Last year I went to a church thing for a while ‘cause they had some free food, but I ran into some john and it got fucking awkward, so I left and napped it off in my car.”

Cas’ brows sweep together.

“Dude, come on,” Dean says, “Don’t do the whole pity party thing. There’s been enough bullshit for one day, don’t you think?”

“Do you – want to spend Christmas here?” asks Castiel, voice timid. He wrings his hands in his lap and glances away from Dean when he speaks again, “It might be crowded. I think our sister Anna is visiting and bringing her daughters. We usually put them up out here on the couch, so you could take my bed if you wanted, and I could take the floor…”

“Dude,” is all that Dean can manage.

He hasn’t had a good Christmas in years. The last decent one came right before he left Sioux Falls. It was tense because Dean had just gotten released from prison, but they still had a tree and some gifts, and Dean made Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Bellies full, he and Sam watched The Year Without Santa Claus and a couple of other specials on Bobby’s couch, while Bobby and Ellen laughed together in the kitchen, and Jo slept wrapped up in a new sweater on the loveseat nearby. Dean remembers it being the first time since his release from prison that he felt a little bit of ease, a little normalcy -- not that they were a normal family, even on a good day. They were broken and fractured, but they'd loved each other fiercely. That Christmas they filled the cracks with alcoholic eggnog and a mix CD of obscure Christmas songs that Jo threw together, and cheap and homemade presents because none of them had the money to go all-out. 

His chest swells at the memory.

In recent Christmases, Dean made his money from lonely saps that don’t have families to spend the winter holidays with, and drank a lot. And he went to grab Chinese food, because those are the only joints that are open on the holiday.

“Please spend Christmas with us,” Cas reiterates.

Dean hesitates before he says, “Only if you let me do some of the cooking. I’m good, I promise.”

“You’d be a guest. There’s no need for that,” Cas replies.

“I’m not a fucking charity case,” Dean snips.

“No, but you’re my friend.”

“I can’t just take Christmas from you guys and then not give anything back, man,” Dean says.

Cas exhales and makes a face and says, “You’re not taking anything from us, but all right. I suppose I can let you help with the cooking if that will make you happy.”

“Very,” Dean confirms.

**X**

Since Sam visited Jessica’s folks for Thanksgiving, she tags along with Sam to Bobby’s for Christmas. Ellen picks them up at airport with a grinning Jo in tow.

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” she enthuses to Jessica, “Sam never shuts up about you, and then he didn’t come to Thanksgiving so we knew you had to be great.”

Jess grins back, and Sam exchanges a tired but happy glance with Ellen before they head off toward Bobby’s place. It doesn’t take long to drive there, only a little over twenty minutes. Ellen parks in Bobby’s driveway beside his truck, and swings around to help Sam and Jess with their belongings.

On the front porch, Bobby is stringing up lights, swearing at them and muttering under his breath as he sways on a wooden, paint-stained ladder that can’t be younger than twenty years old. But when he sees Sam, he offers a toothy grin and says, “Welcome back.”

“How goes the decorating?” Sam asks, trying not to smirk.

“Fuckin’ great, thanks,” Bobby replies, “Goddamn waste of time, if you ask me, but everyone’s gotta have their lights, and no one puts ‘em up right but me.”

“It’s called _holiday spirit_ , Bobby,” Jo calls, and Bobby grunts something under his breath that sounds distinctly like “holiday spirit, my left nut.”

Sam swallows, and like the Christmases before this, he clenches his fists and opens his mouth to ask about his brother.

“He’s not here, son,” Bobby says, before Sam can get the words out. Even though Sam knew that that was what Bobby would say, he still feels a blow to his gut, a combination of longing and fury and ten different other things that he doesn’t feel like identifying. Bobby looks down from the ladder with sad eyes, and Sam knows he’s feeling the same things.

Stupid Dean. Stupid, loveable, wonderful Dean.

Bobby frowns and sees the disappointment written clearly across Sam's face. He says, "Your bank statment's on the kitchen table. Don't know why you have those fuckin' things coming here when you got a perfectly good address of your own."

Sam shoves his way into the house, luggage in hand, and tromps into the kitchen. Sure enough, a white envelope from his bank rests on top of the tiled counter. Sam’s fingers shake as he slides his thumbnail up under the sealed edge and opens it.

He scans the statement while he hears Jess animatedly talking to Jo about sharing cider and swapping Christmas stories tonight after they've settled in. Pizza, movies - the usual.

Until he gets to the end.

There's a deposit for two hundred dollars, but instead of looking as though it's money that he put in his account himself, the statement reads in neat print  _Merry Christmas, Sammy._

Sam tries not to cry.

**X**

Castiel’s sister arrives four days prior to Christmas with two young girls, her daughters Daisy and Leah. By then Cas has insisted that Dean stay with them throughout the entire adventure, so Dean cleaned up the place in preparation for the family’s arrival – which annoyed Gabriel to no end, because, as he claims, now he can’t find anything. Dean thinks he did a decent job. He cleared away the coffee table clutter, went over the bathroom with a white glove, and straightened out the kitchen. He left the bedrooms alone, since Anna and her girls won’t see them unless they get nosy.

“Who are you?” Daisy asks, when Dean emerges with Cas to greet them, and wrinkles her nose.

“I’m the tooth fairy,” he replies.

“No you aren’t!” she exclaims, but she seems at least amused by him. He’s not sure. He hasn’t interacted with kids in a pretty long-ass time.

The days preceding the twenty fifth are full, typically with the energy of two children and alcoholic eggnog-induced laughter, and sometimes sadness, too. Anna knows about Castiel’s leg, but he wears the prosthetic all day, until he and Dean pass out in his room. The girls refer to Castiel as “Uncle Pirate.”

At night, Dean and Cas opt to share the bed, because Cas refuses to let Dean take the floor, and Dean refuses Cas the same. It should have been awkward, but even on the first night after Anna’s arrival it didn’t seem too bad, even when Dean woke up with Castiel’s arm thrown across his chest and his left leg hooked around one of Dean’s legs. They just laughed it off.

Dean agonizes over what gifts to buy for the family. He doesn’t have a whole lot of money – or any money, really – so he slips out for an afternoon to make some cash. Dean ends up with jaw smarting and wrist tender, but enough cash to get something decent for everyone shacked up in Gabriel’s apartment. By evening on the same day, he returns to the apartment with gifts wrapped poorly with newspaper and too much tape, names scrawled on them in Sharpie.

When Dean puts them under Gabriel’s small, fake Christmas tree, he catches Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cas says, when Dean straightens up and blows all the air out of his lungs. His presents look ugly next to the nicely wrapped red and green packages from the rest of the lot, but they’re better than nothing.

“Yes, I did,” Dean replies, and Cas doesn’t press the issue further.

On Christmas Eve, Dean sits alone in Castiel’s bedroom, cellphone in hand, Bobby’s phone number dialed. He wonders what he’ll say if he presses ‘send,’ but in the end decides that he has nothing to say and flips his phone closed, sticking it in the pocket of his jeans, the jeans that used to belong to Castiel.

Dean stretches out on Cas’ bed and sticks his hands behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling light and says, “I hope you’re having a good Christmas, Sammy,” even though there’s no one to listen to him. His chest aches and he feels like hell. He always misses his brother something awful at Christmastime.

“Dean,” he hears, and Cas’ bedroom door creaks open. Leah pokes her head through and says, “Uncle Pirate told me to tell you that we’re watching Elf and you have to come watch it with us because he has beer and cheese popcorn.”

Dean cracks a smile at that. Leave it to Castiel.

They all cram into Gabriel’s living room to watch the movie. The girls fall asleep only a half-hour into it, but Dean nurses his beer and eats the popcorn because Cas got the stuff specifically for him, and finishes out the movie. When the credits roll, he stands to clear up the mess from their food and drinks, and this time, Cas doesn’t protest with _you’re a guest_ – so they’re getting somewhere, at least.

When Dean finishes rinsing the dishes and runs the dishwasher, Anna is draped over the couch, and the girls are spread out on their air mattress, all out like lights. Back in his bedroom, Cas has taken off his prosthetic. His lips lift when Dean slips into the room and closes the door, and that makes Dean smile, which he doesn’t understand.

“What’s that look for?” asks Dean.

Cas’ smile only widens, and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. He shakes his head, “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

You know what? Dean is too.

Dean undoes the fly of his jeans and pulls them off, folding them before he replaces them in his duffel. He retreats back to the bed in a t-shirt and boxers, and slides into place on the left side, what he’s uncomfortably come to think of as _his side._

“How’s your chest healing?” Cas asks.

“Looks all right,” Dean says, “Probably scar up.”

“I hate the person that did that to you,” Cas says.

Dean glances over at Castiel. He looks as angry as he sounds.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean ends up saying. Alastair’s called another few times, but he hasn’t picked up any of them, or checked his voicemails, because Dean doesn’t care to hear it.

Cas frowns and slides off of the mattress to turn out the light. When he crawls back under the covers, Dean can feel his body heat. It shouldn’t make him feel dizzy, but it does, and when Dean reaches out to touch Cas’ arm, it’s like he’s searching for an anchor to keep him grounded. Cas turns on his side to look at Dean, his eyes eerie in the dim moonlight that filters through the blinds. He bends closer to Dean underneath the duvet.

Dean shouldn’t lean in, too, but he does.

Cas’ breath ghosts over him, brushing across the stray strands of hair against Dean’s forehead. Dean catches his gaze, and something between them goes cockeyed. Dean’s chest hurts like hell, and Cas smiles a smile that looks like pain before he touches the barest kiss to the center of Dean’s forehead. Dean lets him, because he wants to let him.

Cas kisses down over Dean’s brow and the bridge of his nose, and with an instant of uncertainty before, he covers Dean’s lips with his. Dean’s eyes shutter down. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He loves this. It’s terrible, and he wants more of it.

But then he thinks of where he’s been. He thinks of how many guys have fucked that mouth. Dean can’t do this with Castiel. Cas deserves so much fucking better than street trash. So much more than an ex-con hooker with nothing but a rusted Impala to his name.

Dean pulls away and says, “I – I can’t.”

“Why not?” asks Cas.

“I just can’t, Cas,” Dean says, not wanting to admit to the rest of the stuff out loud.

“But –”

“Please don’t,” Dean says.

Castiel lowers his eyes, but nods. He understands.

Behind Cas, the glowing numbers of his digital clock read _12:03._

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

“Merry Christmas,” Cas says back, and rolls over onto his other side.

**X**

Happy shouting wakes Dean on Christmas morning. Daisy and Leah are banging against Cas’ bedroom door, yelling that it’s time to get up, time for presents, time for Christmas. According to the clock, it isn’t even seven yet, but Dean can tell from the noise that there’ll be no sleeping in. Cas groans from his place beside Dean and pushes himself into a sitting position, running both hands through his dark hair before he reaches for his prosthetic, where it rests against the wall.

“Morning,” Dean says, voice still deep and muddled with sleep.

“Good morning,” Cas replies, he smiles at Dean, though it’s a little bit sad, and reminds Dean of what happened last night.

“Cas, listen,” Dean says, “Last night – it had nothing to do with you, okay? I just –”

“Dean, stop,” Cas says, and holds up a hand, “I understand. We can discuss it later if you still want to. For now, it’s Christmas, and if we dawdle any longer I think that my nieces are going to break down my door.”

Outside, the apartment smells wonderful, like thick cinnamon and dough. Gabriel reveals he’s making cinnamon rolls, and Dean’s mouth waters at the prospect. He pours himself a glass of orange juice while Cas retreats to the edge of the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Daisy tells them to hurry up already, and Anna scolds her, telling her to be patient.

Castiel stirs sugar into his coffee and brings Dean a mug of it black, a simple thing that makes Dean’s chest hurt all over again. He smiles anyway, and says thanks.

The girls open their gifts first – an Easy Bake oven from Gabriel and several toys and dolls (Daisy likes trains, while Leah prefers Barbies). They open Castiel’s gifts to them at the same time, ripping away the neat gold paper with blue bows. Each slender box beneath the wrapping paper contains a locket etched with their first initial.

“Thank you, Uncle Pirate!” Daisy exclaims.

Castiel replies, “You’re very welcome, Daisy.”

They choose to open Dean’s presents last. He doesn’t blame them. He wrapped their gifts in the sports section, so they don’t look particularly interesting. They’re just coloring books and crayons, which seems stupid now because they probably already have coloring stuff at home, but he didn’t want to leave them out, and –

Daisy shrieks.

“Mama, _a train book_ ,” she says, and holds up the Thomas the Tank Engine coloring book.

“Mine is princess Barbie,” Leah announces.

“Why don’t you say thank you to Dean?” suggests Anna. She looks over to him and smiles this odd smile, something knowing and affectionate that makes Dean uncomfortable enough to look away.

Dean expects the typical resentful ‘thank you’ that children give when their parents ask them to say it, but Daisy climbs to her feet and stumbles through the mess of torn-up paper and stray ribbons to Dean. She wraps her chubby arms around Dean’s neck and applies a wet kiss to his stubbly cheek.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he tells her, chest sore and voice hoarse.

Dean worries about the other gifts, too. Maybe he should have let a guy fuck him so he could afford better things. And he barely even knows Anna – what if he embarrasses her? What if his gift reminds her of her so-called _idiot ex-husband_? But when Anna tears away the newspaper, she grins wide at Dean, her eyes crinkling at the corners the same way that Castiel’s do. It’s not much, just a box of sort-of-fancy chocolates from See’s, but he could afford it and it seemed like a decent idea.

“These are wonderful,” she says, “Thank you, honestly.” He mumbles a ‘you’re welcome’ in return and feels his face heat up.

Gabriel grins too, when he opens his. It’s a recipe book for pastries.

“Dude, awesome,” Gabriel says, and flips through the crisp pages, “There’s definitely some shi –” Anna raises a brow, “– stuff in here I wanna try out for the shop.”

By the time that Castiel is peeling back the Classified section from his present, Dean’s palms are sweating. It’s stupid, it’s not enough, not nearly enough for everything that Cas has done for him. He’s embarrassed, and grabs at the back of his neck so he has something to do with his damp hands.

“Oh,” Cas says, and runs his fingers over the cover of the book, “Dean, this is so thoughtful.” It’s one of those Barnes & Noble collectible editions – not too expensive, but nice. Dean got the Isaac Asimov one because an employee told him that any fan of science fiction would like to have it.

“Sorry it’s not more –”

Cas leans over and gathers Dean up into a hug. When he pulls back, he makes Dean look him in the eye and says, “I love it. I bought you something, too.”

Cas shuffles around the gift remnants around the plastic tree and retrieves a thin package. Like the gifts to Daisy and Leah, the wrapping paper is gold and flawlessly folded, completed with a blue bow attached to the top corner. Dean, reluctant to ruin the paper, unsticks the tape on the back and unfolds it instead of ripping it.

It’s an issue of Batman. An old one, nineteen sixties, if the cover is anything to go by (it is). It’s in near mint condition except for a tiny tear on the bottom right corner, and a small stain above the ‘m’ in _Batman_.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“I know it isn’t much,” Cas says, “I just thought you would like it.”

“I do, man,” Dean says, “I love it.”

Cas’ face melts into a smile.

Before there can be any blubbering or caroling or anything equally as ridiculous, Gabriel stands and retreats to take his cinnamon rolls out of the oven. The attention flies to the kitchen, but as Dean and Cas climb to their feet, Dean still folds his fingers in Cas’ and squeezes his hand.

 


	7. He's Drunk His Cup of Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for using alcohol as a coping mechanism, Alastair, and cops.
> 
> I will be a little later updating after this chapter because I am attending a convention this weekend (NDK in Denver, if you'll be there and want to meet up or something).
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter Track: The Man on the Burning Tightrope - Firewater**

**_He’s Drunk His Cup of Sorrow_ **

“I used to love to run,” Cas says, out of nowhere. Today they’re not in the apartment – somewhere in the mix, he and Cas started to hang around other places. It began with Trickster, where they sat at Cas’ corner table and bummed free food and coffee off of Gabriel, and someplace along the line graduated to sitting in the park together. Cas likes it because it’s January and typically cold as balls, so the kids avoid the parks and they can enjoy relative solitude, aside from the occasional suited-up jogger or pink-nosed dog walker.

Today they sit bundled up within an inch of their lives, a short distance away from some community tennis courts that a couple of girls in windbreakers are practicing on, the _thunk_ of their tennis ball landing sounding off every couple of beats.

“Why don’t you get one of those running-thingies?” asks Dean, “You know, like that one dude in the Olympics had. The prosthetic that looks like a fucked-up ski or something, instead of a foot.”

“It’s just called a running prosthetic, Dean,” Cas says, but an amused smile tilts his lips, even as he fidgets with the plastic lid of his paper coffee cup, “And they’re thousands of dollars.”

“Oh,” Dean says, a pit forming low in his gut, “Do you want one, though?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says softly, “I don’t like people looking at me. They would see it.” The smile is gone now, returned his constant delicate frown, and the pinch between his brows. Dean kind of feels like an asshole for putting that look on Cas’ face.

“I think it’s badass,” Dean says.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Cas says, but his smile doesn’t reappear. Eventually they meander back to Dean’s Impala. It’s cleaner than it used be. Somehow, too much of Dean’s stuff has made itself at home inside Castiel’s bedroom. He tries not to think too hard on it. They pile into the car, Dean rubbing his hands together for warmth before he starts her up, and Cas cupping his coffee close to his body.

Castiel catches Dean staring when they’re at a stoplight, and Dean instantly turns away. Son of a bitch – he’s been doing that more since Christmas Eve. The staring thing.

It’s just that Dean’s never been kissed like that in his life, okay? It’s a little fucking unsettling to feel like you’re being worshipped with somebody’s lips, even if the moment only lasts about three-point-five seconds.

Before Dean had only experienced kisses with a purpose. And that’s fine and fuckin’ dandy. Those kisses are good too, if they’re from people you want them from, anyway. Dean’s been known to want to get down to business himself most of the time, too. But that’s why the incident on Christmas Eve has his feathers so ruffled: How come no one’s ever kissed him like that until now? And how come he never kissed anybody like that before?

“If you think any harder, you’re going to give yourself an aneurysm,” Cas says sagely.

Dean flips him the bird.

And all right, here’s an even better question: How come Cas is kissing him like that?

When they bang their way into the apartment, Cas tosses his empty coffee cup in the trash and collapses on the couch with a long breath. Dean can tell from the look on his face that he’s been on his feet too long, but Cas hates if people say anything about that.

Instead, he says, “You want me to help you with your leg?”

“Yeah,” Cas says, and rubs both hands over his face, “Thank you.”

“No problem, dude,” Dean replies, and crouches on his knees in front of Cas. He reaches down and fumbles a little – Cas has never let him do this before, but he’s seen Cas do it enough times that he should be able to. There’s a switch at the bottom of the socket, near the place that his knee used to be, that he presses down on. The pin unclips and Dean sets the piece aside, reaching to pull away the inside liner. He feels Cas tense when he touches the end of his leg, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Dean.

Dean rests his whole palm against the scar tissue.

“It’s so ugly,” Cas says brokenly.

Dean glances up sharply and shakes his head, “No. God no, Cas. Don’t say shit like that.”

“It’s true,” he says, “and you know it’s true.”

The words rail through Dean like a runaway train. He tries to swallow the awful sensation back, but can’t.

He does the only thing that he can think of. Dean settles down on his knees completely, leans in, and brushes his lips against Cas’ damaged skin. A soft breath shakes through Cas’ body, but instead of telling Dean to stop, or throwing him back, he just threads a hand through Dean’s hair. When Dean flicks his eyes up, Cas watches him. He doesn’t look angry, but nor does he look pleased. He looks…curious, or maybe confused.

Dean skates his lips from place to place on Cas’ thigh, pressing them down where he thinks they’re needed, and strokes over the rest of the skin with the backs of his knuckles, up and down. He doesn’t realize Cas is trembling until a soft whimper breaks from his throat and distracts Dean into looking back up.

“Dean,” Cas says, “Come here.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He climbs up and boxes Cas’ lap in between his legs. This time, Cas leans in, and pulls Dean’s head down so that their lips meet. Fuck, he feels so damn good. His lips are soft and taste like peppermint chapstick. Whatever it is, it makes Dean’s lips tingle, and the sensation sends a dart of feeling all the way between his legs. He makes a quiet noise and opens his lips.

Cas seizes the opportunity to press his tongue inside Dean’s mouth, stroking, testing, and Dean kisses back. He feels heat build in his belly, and sweat start to gather between his shoulder blades.

That’s when he draws back. Cas stares at him for a too-long moment, and Dean stares right back. Neither of them can think of what to say.

It’s Dean that finally says something, “Probably better to take it slow, since I have no fucking idea what we’re doing here.”

Cas nods, and Dean slides off of his lap, landing on his ass on the couch cushion beside him.

“You taste nice,” he adds, and pretends he doesn’t feel the blood rush to his stupid face.

Cas’ lips curl into a smile.

“I think you taste better,” he says. Dean rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s smiling, too.

They turn on the television (Now working their way through Legend of Korra) and sit too close to one another, and it feels incredible.

And when Gabe comes home and spots them still sprawled side by side, he lifts one brow, but doesn’t bother to say anything at all.

What a strange goddamn day.

**X**

Dean crashes on the couch that night, though a small part of him that he would never admit to out loud misses the days surrounding Christmastime, when he and Cas slept side by side. The pillow that Dean uses doesn’t even smell like Cas anymore – it smells like Dean. Sure, it smells like Cas’ shower stuff ‘cause Dean’s using that too, but that aroma underneath it, of skin, of that _something_ that makes Castiel is missing, just leaving the scent of Dean.

In the end, he sleeps poorly, and wakes up before either Novak brother. His neck hurts from sleeping funny, but he gets up anyway and folds the fleece blanket that he’s come to think of as his, at least when he’s here. Dean pops some of the kinks out of his neck and decides to make breakfast. Typically Gabriel likes to do it, but since Dean’s foray into the Novak kitchen with Christmas dinner, he’s given Dean a little more leeway with the cooking.

Dean’s good at cooking. Or, you know, decent. Skilled enough to cook up some damn fine bacon and hash browns, in any case.

Cas wakes up first, and looks like shit when he stumbles out of his bedroom sans prosthetic. He does that some mornings, using the wall to navigate haphazardly before collapsing on the couch.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Nightmare,” Cas grumbles.

Outside, the sun isn’t even up yet. Being winter and barely past five o’clock in the morning, the apartment is bathed in dark except for the kitchen light above Dean’s head.

“You…wanna talk about it?” ventures Dean, uncertainly. It’s most likely not his place to ask that question, but his and Cas’ relationship is in such uncharted territory that he frankly can’t be sure.

“Not particularly, no,” Cas replies, though his tone isn’t unkind. He turns back to look over at Dean and says, “Breakfast smells good.”

“Hashbrowns, dude. I’ve got a hankering,” Dean grins back.

Cas hums at that, and doesn’t complain when Dean finishes breakfast and brings his plate and heavily sugared coffee to him on the couch. Dean stares at Cas while he chews his first bite and wonders why he craves Cas’ approval so much – it’s just breakfast, and it’s the kind of breakfast that Dean used to make all the time back in Sioux Falls.

Cas grunts his appreciation as he swallows and says, “Your cooking will be the death of me.”

“That a good thing?”

“At the moment,” Cas says, and offers a crooked smile, “When I’m fifty five and my arteries are clogged to hell, probably not as much.”

Dean laughs at that, satisfied enough with Castiel’s response to dig into his own plate of food. The salt lingers on his tongue, and the meal sits pleasantly in his belly, even as Gabriel wakes and hoards the rest of the food before he makes a mad dash to open the coffee shop at six, as usual.

In his absence, Dean feels the significance of being alone with Castiel much harder than before. He tries not to stare, but when they turn on cartoons and Cas’ eyes drift to the television screen, Dean can’t help but take him in. He noticed Cas’ good looks right off the bat, but they were an undercurrent to the maelstrom of his life. Now that Dean knows what he feels like and what he tastes like, he can’t keep his eyes away. He fucking _knows_ when Cas is there, and if he knows Cas is there, then he feels like he has to look at him.

“You’re gawking, Dean.”

“I am not,” Dean protests, and Cas turns his head to raise one brow high on his forehead, “Okay, fine, maybe I am.”

“What are you thinking about?” asks Cas, voice rough in a way that makes Dean’s spine straighten and fingers fidget.

Dean swallows, “I, um.”

“You’re blushing,” Cas remarks.

“What?” Dean reaches up and feels his face and Cas’ smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

How is it even possible for Dean to blush anymore? He thought he’d lost every ounce of shame he had, but he’s blushed more since September than he has in the entire twenty three years before that. Guess it’s probably something to file in with ‘reverent kisses’ and ‘worrying about hurting somebody.’ For fuck’s sake. He’s losing it.

If there’s one thing that he’s always been good at, it’s sex. Flirtation. Attraction. You know, a wink here, a suggestive remark there, and then _boom_ , pretty girl or well-endowed guy or hell, people neither here nor there would be in the sack. And Dean is damn good in the sack.

Until now, apparently.

“Relax,” Cas says.

And he kisses him.

Dean’s so tense that Cas draws back again almost immediately. Dean blinks back just a little when Cas rests his fingertips against his cheek, and runs his thumb over the skin just under Dean’s eye. His hands are rough and calloused, but feel nice against him.

“Relax,” Cas repeats, and pushes their mouths together again.

Dean opens up under him and presses hard into the embrace. Arms find their way around Dean’s neck, and Dean’s touch flies to the hem of Cas’ t-shirt. He pauses at the hem, and just strokes the soft strip of skin exposed between the shirt and the elastic waistband of Cas’ boxer briefs. Cas moans a pained noise, and it goes directly to Dean’s dick.

Well, son of a bitch.

He’s _hard._ Of his own volition.

That’s new.

Depressing as it is, Dean seldom finds it in him to jerk off. When he touches himself, he just ends up thinking of the night before, when inevitably he was on his knees in some piss-scented alleyway, or in a cheap-ass motel bed, getting rammed, or doing the ramming himself, if he’s lucky.

None of that comes to mind now, because it’s just him and Cas, just their skin and lips and hands in hair and stroking down arms.

Cas nips down on Dean’s lower lip, and he whimpers. Actually fucking whimpers. God, this is insane. And so good.

The spell is broken when Cas reaches cup Dean’s erection through his underwear.

Dean jerks back and says, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Cas asks, voice husky and thick with want.

The reasons race through his head. He’s dirty. He’s used. He’s worthless. For fuck’s sake, he let Alastair come inside him. God only knows what shit he could have. So far he hasn’t seen anything down south, but he can’t know. Some things don’t show up on your body. Everyone on the streets knows that.

“Cas, come on,” Dean says, desperate for him to understand, and understand enough that he doesn’t have to admit to all the disgusting things he’s had done to him out loud.

They feel more real if he has to do that.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, “Why can’t we – you…we’re attracted to each other, right?”

“Yeah. God, yeah,” Dean says.

“Then –”

“Because I’m a fucking mess, Cas! Because when I’m not with you, I’m blowing some dude or getting my ass plowed, and sure, I make most dudes wrap it up, but if you pay me enough I let it slide. I don’t know what I could have. I’m fucked up and wasted and I’m not fucking good enough, okay? You – you’re good, man. You’re a good person. You don’t deserve to be ruined by someone like me,” he shouts. He doesn’t cry, but he’s yelling so hard that his throat hurts when he shuts up and looks at Cas.

“I cannot believe that you think that,” Cas says.

“I’ve come to terms with it,” Dean replies through gritted teeth.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Cas snaps at him, “You’re not – you’re not anything of the things you said you are. You do so much for everyone else and you never do anything for yourself, because you’ve got this stupid notion that you don’t deserve to feel good. I want to make you feel good. That’s all.”

“You can’t,” Dean says, trying desperately to make him understand, “You can’t make me feel good because I’m just gonna feel like shit if I fuck you up.”

“I,” Cas begins, “Unbelievable. You really think that.”

“You don’t get it,” Dean rasps.

“No, I think I do,” Cas says back, “You think so little of me that you think I care about your past, or –”

“It’s not my past,” Dean says, “It’s my present. Fuck you, I’m out of here.”

“Dean, come on,” Cas says, “Don’t.”

After he throws his clothes on and shoves his feet into boots, Dean doesn’t stay long enough to see Cas try and push himself to the wall so that he could follow after.

**X**

Dean throws himself into the Impala. He drives for a long time, circling residential roads until he winds up in the parking lot in front of his favorite liquor haunt, where he can see Benny through the tinted windows, kicking back with his feet up on the checkout counter.

Dean puts his face in his hands and slams a hand against the dashboard.

He feels bad instantly after.

“Sorry, girl,” he says.

God, he feels like shit. His brain pounds in his skull, angry and hot. All he can think of is Cas, and how he’s fucked that up again. He should go back, but he’s so pissed that he can’t. Castiel wants sex and he doesn’t want to do that to him. It’s that simple. Sex – that’s in a different compartment than Castiel.

The liquor store that seemed like a bad idea a mere few minutes ago seems like the best idea he’s had in months in that moment. Dean steps out of the Impala and treks into the liquor store.

Benny greets him, but Dean doesn’t say anything. He beelines for the whiskey section and swipes a bottle of Jack Daniels off of one of the middle shelves, tucking it under his arm. He should – make sure he actual has the cash for this first. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans.

Cas’ jeans.

And pulls out his worn-out wallet. He has thirty three dollars inside. It’s just enough to get what he needs and have a little left over.

“You feelin’ all right?” Benny asks, when Dean sets the bottle of liquor down on the counter.

“Shut the fuck up, Benny,” he bites back.

Benny makes a face, but doesn’t comment back. Dean pays for his whiskey and leaves without another word. He uncaps it and takes a swing before he even makes it back to his girl. Yeah, there’s that familiar burn, there for him when nothing else is. He climbs into the backseat instead of the front and tips another long pull of alcohol from the bottle. He can feel the fuzz edging into his brain.

With the comfort of alcohol arrives a wave of guilt.

Guilt over his selfishness. Guilt over choosing to spend time with Castiel when he could have been making money to put Sam through college. Who knows how many hundreds of dollars are lost because Dean just wanted to feel decent.

He doesn’t deserve to feel decent, not after all the bullshit that he’s done.

Shit, he’s really drunk.

He doesn’t know how long he sits in the back of the Impala, but half of the bottle is gone and so is his friendship with Castiel. Maybe it’s permanent this time, if Cas wants what Dean can’t give.

Dean needs to make up for all the cash he didn’t get to Sam. He only gave him two hundred for Christmas, for shit’s sake. Sam’s grown up. He needs to eat three squares a day and pay his bills and insurance and all the other shit beyond tuition. Dean knows that stuff better than anybody – he was always the one that paid for it, as soon as he was old enough. Dad was always too stuck down the neck of a bottle to do it himself. Dean figured out what he could do to make up for it real fucking fast.

Shoplifting, cons and scams, straight-up begging – until he hit about fourteen, when his voice dropped and his leg stretched, and he realized some guys would pay wads and wads of dollar bills just to have a piece of him. Guys like Alastair, sometimes. Other times, just regular, lonely guys.

Dean has no money. Without Cas, he has nothing to eat, and he sleeps in the back of his car.

And he forgets about his brother.

Sam is _always_ the most important thing.

That’s why Dean finds himself with his phone in his hand and the contact screen for _Giant Dickweed_ staring back at him. His hands shake. He thinks of the last time, and unconsciously touches his hand to his chest. Even through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, he can feel the raised skin on his chest underneath. He thinks of how he thought his body was going to break apart when Alastair fucked into him without prep.

But then Dean thinks of Sammy again.

He presses _Send_.

The phone rings only twice before the line picks up, and Alastair’s voice draws out, “You’ve been ignoring me.”

“…Yeah,” is all that Dean says.

“So, why contact me now?” Alastair asks.

“I need cash,” Dean says gruffly.

“Ah, so you need my charity,” Alastair says. He sounds pleased. Dean feels sticky with discomfort.

“Something like that,” Dean mumbles.

Even though Dean can’t see him, he can feel Alastair smile when he replies, “I’ll see you in room three twenty at ten o’clock.”

**X**

A nervous buzz thrums through Dean’s body as he makes the familiar walk through the hotel lobby, toward the elevators. Cas has called three times, but he let each go to voicemail. Gabriel called once after that, but he let that one go, too. He doesn’t need their charity anymore, doesn’t need their food or couch or Christmas presents or – fuck him, how did he reach the third floor so quickly?

Dean steps out of the elevator and onto the plush carpet of the hallway. He knows the way to Alastair’s room, but fight or flight is kicking in and he’s thinking about saying he got lost and taking off.

But that would be selfish.

Dean sets his jaw and curls his hands into fists. He walks directly to room three twenty, and knocks just two times.

Alastair’s mouth stretches into a Grinch-like smile when he opens the door.

“I’m pleased,” he says, “I thought you may have…changed your mind. You’re seven minutes late, you know.”

“Sorry,” mutters Dean.

“We’ll just have to find an appropriate punishment, shall we?” Alastair still smiles and hooks his hands behind his back, cocking his head toward the bed.

Dean mechanically removes his clothing first, one piece at a time. He folds his things like always, and climbs up onto the hotel bed, ass in the air.

Inexplicably, the Christmas Eve kiss floats to the surface of his mind. He thinks of how worshipful Cas was with just a few short seconds, how kind. He thinks about how, even if they do argue, he trusts Cas. And if – well, if Cas thinks he’s worth it, then what if he is?

Dean feels Alastair behind him. A hand cups one asscheek, and Dean swallows. He knows what’s coming. The blow lands, so hard Dean falls on his face into the mattress. His ass burns and Alastair’s ring cut across the skin.

And –

He doesn’t want to this.

He wants to be home.

Hell, he has a home, and it’s not his Impala (sweet as she is), it’s with Gabe and Cas in Gabriel’s small, shitty apartment, watching cartoons and making food and making jabs at each other and laughing and – God, this was a mistake.

Dean rolls away before Alastair can hit him again.

“Get back on the bed,” Alastair hisses.

“No,” Dean says, “I didn’t sign up for this. You’re a dick, and I’m leaving.”

“ _I paid for you_ ,” Alastair protests.

Dean stalks to his folded clothes and throws the hundreds at Alastair. He says, “You’re insane, man. I’m not doing this.”

Dean doesn’t expect the primal growl that tears from Alastair’s throat, or the way he leaps at Dean like he’s the prey to his predator.

“What the fuck?” Dean shouts, when Alastair’s grip closes around his forearm, strong as steel, and he yanks Dean forward, back toward the hotel room bed, sheets now mussed. He jerks himself out of Alastair’s hold. Instinct kicks in, and Dean has enough sense to grab his clothing before he unlatches the room’s door and flees, bare-assed naked, into the hotel.

He takes off down the stairs.

Behind him, he hears, “You little whore. You’re _mine_.”

When Dean spares a glance behind his bare shoulder, he sees Alastair on his tail, rage twisting his face into something even uglier than it was before.

Aw, shit.

Well, at least the hotel staff is gonna get a helluva show tonight. Hopefully they don’t call the fuzz on his naked ass.

Dean pounds down the steps, Alastair a breath behind him. He spirals down the concrete staircases until he reaches the bottom door, the one that releases out into the lobby. God, all right, no time like the present.

He bursts out into the hotel lobby, clothes in hands, nothing on his body, and hears a noise of surprise from one of the female desk attendants when he trips and the bundle of clothing in his arms goes sailing across the room, and Dean smacks onto the marble floor.

Alastair’s on him in a second. Dean kicks his legs back and sends him toppling onto the floor, too, before he launches forward and sends a fist into Alastair’s face. He’s been here before – not with a john, but Dean’s been in his fair share of fist fights. He’s still a little drunk, so his reflexes don’t work quite the way that he expects, but he manages to clock Alastair in the jaw and manages to wriggle out of his grip and toward his fallen belongings.

“You worthless slut,” Alastair spits out, a string of blood leaking from where Dean split his lip. Alastair leaps for him and tackles Dean from behind.

“You think this is my first rodeo, assclown?” Dean shoots back, and flips Alastair over, “And I’m not worthless.”

Alastair punches him square in the eye.

Fuck.

Dean goes down, his skull cracking back against the marble. His eyes cross and his mind goes dizzy. The world doubles, and two Alastairs climb on top of him. He slaps Dean first and calls him a whore. Then his hands are around Dean’s throat, and Dean can’t breathe. For a terrifying second he thinks that he is going to die here, but through the corners of his fuzzy vision he sees a familiar flash of blue and red outside the hotel’s front doors.

Dean takes back what he said about not wanting the cops here. God bless cops.

It takes two blue-uniformed dudes to haul Alastair off of Dean. Alastair shouts and thrashes and spits, and Dean cracks a hazy smile before he realizes that he’s been pulled to his feet by another cop, who’s pulling his wrists behind his back and slapping cuffs on him, too.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Dean complains, “He was fucking me up. Or are you blind?”

The policeman just recites Dean his Miranda rights before he tugs Dean, still naked as the day he was born, out the door and toward one of the cop cars, lights so bright that Dean has to close his eyes against the flash.

There’s a fire truck, too. Jesus Christ, what did the hotel folks even say to get the whole cavalry on their asses? The policeman holding Dean pushes him down onto the backseat of one of the cars and stalks away toward a clutch of other officers, speaking to one of the uniformed hotel staff.

“Hey, son, are you gonna be okay?”

Dean looks up. A firefighter stands in front of him, holding out a blanket. Dean makes a face and shifts, so the guy just drapes it across his shoulders and repeats, “You gonna be okay?”

“Fine,” Dean says shortly. The fact that Alastair didn’t get to the actual fucking part’ll help out with tonight being not-entirely-shit.

“Guy’s messed up,” the firefighter says, “This isn’t the first time we’ve been on a scene with him. He’s wealthy, though. Gotten out of a lot, that one. I’m just glad you’re not a body, kid.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, I'm hearing some of these cops say he's suspected of the murder of a few other young guys workin’ the streets. Here and a couple of other states, too,” the firefighter frowns, “What’s your name?”

“Dean,” Dean sighs.

“Victor,” the firefighter says, “I hope you make it outta tonight okay.”

“Yeah,” Dean says absently, “Thanks.”

The cop that arrested Dean climbs into the car with his partner a few minutes later, and they start her up, heading toward the precinct. When they arrive, they provide some prison rags for Dean to wear. Dean can’t decide if those are more embarrassing than being buck naked. They look him up in the system and pull up past offenses. All of them are in Sioux Falls – he’s been so careful not to get arrested here, keeping to the letter of the law as best he could. His last prostitution charges are when he was eighteen.

Dean is thankful that they can’t get to the ones before that.

They lead him through booking, taking his photo and photos of all the surface damage on his body, the bruises on his neck, the slice on his ass from Alastair's ring, even his scars. They ask his side of the night’s events before they let him know what he’s being charged with – prostitution and assault – and lead him to where he can make his phone call before they herd him into temporary lockup to wait for a judge to set his bail.

At first Dean thinks he shouldn’t call anybody, that he should just suffer the goddamn consequences, but he doesn’t want to be here. The cops made it clear that if he made bail that they’d let him out tonight, and he could worry about the court proceedings later, at home. Dean replied that he doesn’t have a home, and the cops just looked sorry for him. He hates when people look sorry for him.

Dean swallows his pride and shoves it down to the deepest, darkest corners of his gut, and dials Castiel’s phone number.

“Hello?” comes the familiar, gravelly voice.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, voice small.

“Dean? Where are you? Are you okay? Did you lose your phone?”

“Cas, shut up for a second. I-I’m fine. But I need a favor. A big favor. Look, long story short, I fucked up, some shit went down, and I need somebody to bail me out,” Dean holds his face in his hand, careful to avoid his fresh black eye, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Cas says. Dean can hear him rustling around, “Gabriel and I will be there soon, okay? I’m glad that you called.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. A wave of abrupt emotion sweeps over him. Cas didn’t even question what happened. He’s just coming. He’s coming to get Dean, and only because Dean asked him to.

Then and there, Dean cracks into a million pieces. He starts to cry, and promises into the receiver, “I promise I’ll pay you back. Every penny. Thank you for – just, thank you.”

“Of course,” Cas replies, “Okay, we’re on our way. Hold on.”

“Yeah, see you,” Dean says. He wipes his face clean of tears after he hangs up before he lets the cops take him back to the temp cells.

When the guy uncuffs him, he says to Dean, “I’m glad you got somebody, son.”

Dean is, too.

Cas and Gabriel arrive just under a half-hour later. Gabe’s in pajamas with a stricken look on his long face, and Dean knows Cas must have explained everything to Gabriel about what Dean does. Makes sense, since Gabe’s the one that had to make the trip here. Cas has a travel mug in his hands, and is wearing a t-shirt with the name of some band Dean doesn’t know sprawled across it, and…basketball shorts. His leg. It’s out in the open, and he doesn’t appear to care in the least.

When the cops let Dean out of his cell, Cas comes running at him. He hugs Dean close to his chest. When he lets go, he doesn’t mention the tear stains on his shirt, and Dean appreciates that.

The police return his clothing to him, as well as his crappy cellphone, whose screen is now shattered, rendering the thing completely useless.

“You look like shit,” Gabriel says when they emerge into the precinct parking lot.

“Gabe,” Castiel warns.

“It’s okay,” Dean says, resting a hand on Cas’ arm, “I know.”

“You should have told me,” Gabriel says, “You should have said something, dude.”

“Why?” Dean asks, “It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“Because I could have helped!” Gabriel exclaims, “In case you hadn’t fucking noticed, I do run my own place of business, genius. I could give you a job, you know. Do you want a job? Because bucko, I don’t like the idea of you turning tricks for cash.”

“Wait, seriously?” Dean says, and stops in his tracks.

Gabriel turns around with an exasperated exhale and says, “Yes, Dean. That’s what friends do. You know, friends. Those people that you take care of and that take care of you? _Friends_.”

“Gabe, man,” Dean says, but Gabe interrupts.

“You’ve been doing this the whole time I’ve fucking known you?” he demands.

Dean hunches his shoulder and replies, “Yeah.”

“Fuck me, I thought you were running drugs or some shit,” Gabe says, “You – damn it. Just like, take a couple of days to recover, and ride with me to open up on Tuesday, okay? I’ll show you the works and get you started.”

Dean just says thank you, because he doesn’t think there’s anything else that he could say. They climb into Gabriel’s car, a fancy, showy 2014 Audi in candy red. Castiel opts to sit in the back with Dean, and rests an arm around Dean’s shoulders. Neither of them comment on the decision.

When they arrive back at the apartment, Cas hugs Dean again, harder, this time. He presses a kiss to Dean’s temple before he pulls away.

“Do you need a shower?” he asks.

Dean nods. He scrubs himself raw in the shower and emerges in his own pajamas, hair damp and eye tender. Cas waits for him on the couch. The television is on, but he’s not paying attention to it, and he leaps up when Dean exits the bathroom.

“Where do you want to sleep tonight?” he asks, “You can take my bed, if you want.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Dean says, and then adds, “but only if you’re in it with me.”

Castiel tilts his head at this tidbit and says, “All right.”

“And maybe. I dunno. Hold me, or something like that,” Dean mutters.

Cas offers a gentle smile and agrees, “Of course, Dean.”

They switch off the apartment lights and retreat to Cas’ bedroom, where each of them slide into bed underneath the covers. Dean hesitates. He’s embarrassed. But Castiel scoops him up and presses his nose into Dean’s shower-damp hair. Dean settles after that, face laid against the solid plane of Cas’ chest. He smells good and comforting.

And he feels like home.

**X**

Sam works out the kinks in his neck acquired from three hours locked up in the law library. He’s relieved when he sees Jess waiting for him beside her crappy old car with a Starbucks cup in one hand and a Chipotle bag in the other. He breaks out into a smile and greets her with a kiss.

“You’re a saint,” he says, “What would I do without you?”

“Crash and burn,” she replies, and pecks a second kiss to his cheek.

Jess’ roommate is out for class, so they shack up in Jess’ dorm and make a burrito and coffee picnic on the floor. Sam pulls up his laptop to browse Facebook as Jessica discusses her earlier anthropology class, detailing this one kid that won’t leave her alone despite the fact that she isn’t single, and wouldn’t be interested even if she was.

“He’s such a pain,” Jess laments, “I wish you had that class with me. One look at your giant ass and he’d head for the hills.”

Sam grins at that, mouth full of burrito.

He hasn’t checked for news on Dean lately, and like that the good mood sucks away. He sends a quick text message to both Bobby and Ellen asking if they’ve heard anything, searches for Dean’s name on Facebook (it still isn’t there) and then googles his name.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Sam breathes.

There’s news.

News from Kansas.

News that includes his brother’s name in the article.

“What?” Jessica says, and immediately rounds to see the monitor of Sam’s laptop. She glances from the article to Sam and breathes, “Oh, fuck.”

**_Murder Suspect Attempts to Strangle Naked Prostitute in Lawrence Hotel_ **

Sam is relieved, as he reads, that Dean is not the murder suspect, but then immediately furious when he realizes that this information delegates Dean to ‘naked prostitute.’

Oh, God. There’s a picture of his mugshot.

He looks like hell. His eye is black and his lip is split –

and he’s making a fucking face at the camera. Really, Dean?

“I have to go find him,” Sam concludes when he finishes reading the short recap of events on the news website. He slams his laptop shut, “I have to go back to my dorm and pack.”

“I’m coming with you,” Jess says.

“No, you are not,” Sam replies, “This is – this is family crap, Jess. I don’t want to pull you into it.”

“Since I’ve been helping you search for Dean, I’d say that I’m already into it,” she responds, and lifts a brow at him, “I am coming with you, and that is final.”

“Jess –”

“This is important to you,” she says, “so it’s important to me, too.”

Sam hesitates. If he brings Jess and finds Dean, that means that Jess’ll get to meet his brother. If he brings Jess and doesn’t find Dean, that means that she’ll be there when the inevitable disappointment comes.

Okay, yeah, bringing his girlfriend is a good idea.

“Okay,” Sam says, “But what about your classes?”

“What about _your_ classes?” she shoots back.

“Screw ‘em,” he says.

She smiles and agrees, “Screw ‘em.”

**X**

The drive from Stanford to Lawrence, Kansas is definitely a haul. Sam and Jessica pack clothes for at least a week, though the trip will only take two days – the way Sam drives, anyway. They take his car because it’s more reliable and just had its oil changed.

And thank Christ for Jess. She doesn’t complain about gas station lunches and shitty diner dinners, or even suspicious looking continental breakfasts. She kisses Sam when he needs it, and rubs his neck when they make it to a motel on the first night away from school. She doesn’t even complain when Sam is too tired for morning sex, and too determined to reach Kansas in a timely manner.

He should care about how much money this road trip is costing, but finds himself unable to give half a shit when he thinks that this means he could find Dean. He could see his brother again, for the first time in almost five years, now.

Hell, Dean’s birthday is in like a fucking week, and he could _be there_ for that.

They stop in Goodland, Kansas for breakfast on the eighteenth of January.

“Only six more hours,” Jess says with a weary smile, and reaches across the diner table to fold Sam’s larger hand in hers. Her typically meticulously manicured nails have turquoise polish chipping from the tops. He wonders if that annoys her.

Sam narrowly avoids getting a ticket nearly three hours later, but doesn’t bother to stop speeding.

They reach Lawrence by two in the afternoon, road-weary and sore from the shitty seats of Sam’s Honda.

“Coffee first, then search?” Sam suggests when they pass an appealing-looking little place called ‘Trickster.’

“Sounds like a plan,” Jess agrees.

Sam finds a place to park not too far from the coffee shop, off on a residential side road. He hugs Jess when they climb out of the car, and applies a kiss to her lips. She tastes like chapstick instead of lipgloss – trust her to be practical when he needs it.

The coffee shop is nice inside, painted in warm colors, with snowy, winter-themed art decking the walls, price tags taped underneath. If Sam wasn’t so on edge, he might have stopped to admire them a little more, but right now, he just needs caffeine and his brother.

At the counter, a middle-aged, sandy-haired guy with _Gabriel_ on his nametag greets, “Well hello, attractive customers, what can I do you for?” He winks.

“Are you fucking flirting out there, boss?” a voice calls from a door to a back kitchen area.

A voice Sam knows very well.

“Stop calling me ‘boss,’ you little shit,” Gabriel calls back.

“When it makes you so hot for me? Never.”

And Dean Winchester emerges from the backroom. His mouth falls open at the sight of Sam and Jess, and Sam’s certain he looks just the same. Dean looks like hell, still decorated with a black eye and split lip, even if he did have a smile on his face before that. And what the hell is he doing hooking if he has a job at a coffee joint?

“Hey, Sammy,” he says.


	8. The Tune of Your Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of alcohol and abuse.

**Chapter Track: Love Song – Hooded Fang**

**_The Tune of Your Breath_ **

Castiel seldom feels interested in watching another person’s misfortune unfold, but the moment that he hears Dean utter, “Hey, Sammy,” he can’t focus on his book anymore, intense intergalactic battle aside.

“You _jerk_ ,” says Sammy – or Sam? Cas isn’t certain what the man prefers. And he is a man, taller than Dean, shoulders broad, an attractive young woman at his side with a stricken expression gracing her weary face. Her eyes flick from Dean in his burgundy work apron to Sam, whose face is twisted in anger.

“I’m the jerk,” Dean says, tasting the words as though he doesn’t understand why his brother is angry at him.

_His brother_.

“I can’t fucking believe – Dean, I’m so fucking pissed off at you,” Sam says, and folds his arms over his broad chest.

Gabriel intervenes at this, “All right, boys. How about I make everyone a drink and you can sit down and have this chat elsewhere, hmm?”

“Gabe, I’m only halfway through my shift,” protests Dean.

“Then take your lunch, numbskull,” Gabriel replies, “Actually, no. Take the rest of the day. You can sit in here if you don’t cause a fucking scene.”

Dean swallows and, for the first time since his brother walked into the shop, shifts his gaze over to Cas. He inclines his head over at a larger table, still safely in the back of Trickster where Cas doesn’t feel exposed, but with enough seats to accommodate the four of them. At least, Cas thinks Dean is asking him to sit with them.

_Need you_ , Dean mouths, and Castiel nods.

Gabriel makes Sam and his companion each a hazelnut latte and pours Dean a wide mug of black coffee when he refills Cas’ own cup. He says he’ll fix them something to eat, and Cas nods at his brother in thanks. Gabriel is mostly obnoxious, but these past couple of weeks he’s been nothing but graceful and understanding. It’s appreciated.

“Who are you?” asks Sam, when he and his companion sit down.

“Sam,” the young woman says, and rests a hand on Sam’s upper arm.

He glances over at her and mutters, “Sorry.” Whether the apology is to her or to Castiel is unclear.

“This is Cas,” Dean says as pulls his apron up over his head and drapes it across the back of the unoccupied chair beside Castiel. He sits down and goes on, “He’s Gabe’s brother and he’s my friend. If you’re a bitch to him, I’m gonna be angry.”

Sam furrows his brow at Dean and makes a face before he ventures another look at Castiel. Then a frown weighs down his lips and he demands, “How the hell could you let him go out and – and pass himself out for cash? Look, I’m all for being sex positive and cool with the work but I know it’s not what Dean wants to be doing so I’m wondering why the fuck you’d let him do that if you’re his friend.”

“I’m right here,” Dean complains, “Quit talking like I’m not.”

“I’m mad at you,” Sam snaps, and focuses back on Castiel, “Well?”

“Most likely because Dean would not have listened to me,” Cas answers calmly.

Dean grumbles, “Awesome. Now both of you are on my ass.”

“I’m not ‘on your ass,’ Dean, I’m merely speaking the truth,” Cas responds.

Sam snorts.

“And how come you’re out on the street when you’ve got a job here, exactly?” asks Sam.

Dean shifts uncomfortably. Cas watches as his knuckles whiten around his coffee mug. He reaches over under the table and rests his hand on Dean’s knee, hoping that this is an action that falls under the category of ‘okay.’ It seems to – Dean turns his head and smiles just barely. Cas squeezes his leg, offering as much comfort as he can.

“It’s a new job,” Dean says, and tips back a swallow of black coffee, “Gabe didn’t know what I was doing until I got arrested. I guess that’s how you found me, huh?” A sad smile transforms Dean’s face into something that Cas has never seen before, something tragic that makes his heart squirm underneath his ribcage and his lips buzz with the need to kiss Dean back into a good mood.

“Something like that,” Sam replies. He stares down into the foamy top of his latte and then runs a big hand through his long hair. There’s a lot that he wants to say, Cas thinks, but perhaps he doesn’t want to say those words with Cas or his companion around.

Sam ventures, “I missed you.”

Dean looks up sharply and goes, “Wait, really?”

“What the fuck, dude? Yes, really. You’re my brother,” Sam says, “Look, I know I said some shit I shouldn’t have and I didn’t mean it, okay. I felt like crap as soon as you left and – then you were just gone. And then I find out that you’ve been hooking for money. And you sent me so much money, Dean. I don’t want money you had to hurt yourself to get.”

“I don’t always get hurt,” Dean defends, and Sam lifts one brow.

“Where do you even live?” Sam asks.

“Mostly with Gabe and Cas,” Dean says.

“And when you’re not with them?”

“In my car,” Dean replies.

“In your car? Are you kidding me?” Sam blows all the air out of his lungs and rolls his eyes skyward, leaning back in his chair.

Sam’s companion at last addresses the table and says, “Maybe it would be better to talk about this elsewhere. Cas and I can hang out, and Sam and Dean can hash out what they need to. Does that sound like a plan?”

Mild surprise touches Dean’s face and he agrees, “Okay, yeah. That sounds good.”

“Should finish our drinks first,” mumbles Sam, staring down into their ceramic mugs.

They don’t speak as they do. Cas thinks he should feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t. Some combination of the heat of Dean’s leg under his palm and the science fiction novel on the table in front of him makes a balm, and he feels at ease.

**X**

As soon as Cas’ hand leaves Dean’s leg, Dean feels nausea slip in. He and Sam walk to the nearby park, leaving Sam’s girlfriend – Jessica, he says – and Cas back at Trickster Coffee for the time being. Dean and Sam don’t speak as they walk. Mostly, they just stare at each other. Sam hit a growth spurt within the last few years – when Dean left, Sam was still skinny and shrimpy and shorter than Dean. Now he’s enormous, even if his face still has a little baby fat in some areas.

When they skirt the edge of the park, Sam stops in his tracks and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. He says, “I can’t believe you, Dean.”

It still hurts. After all this time, his brother’s disappointment drills into Dean so hard he would swear that every organ inside him explodes. He’s bleeding inside, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, figures Sammy wants to let everything out.

“That came out wrong,” Sam says, and runs a hand through his hair, “Shit. Okay, let’s back up. Who’s this Cas guy to you, really? Don’t think I didn’t notice how you guys were acting. Is he like, your boyfriend, or something?”

“Nah,” Dean answers, “I don’t actually know what we’re doing.”

“How’d you meet?” asks Sam.

They wind up the sidewalk, past the tennis courts and toward the soccer field where kids’ teams practice every so often. The sky overhead is light gray. It’ll be snowing by nighttime, Dean suspects. Sure is cold enough – he pulls the collar of his leather jacket up against the chill and shoves his hands deep into the pockets to protect them.

Sam keeps quiet until Dean says, “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Yeah, and?”

“All right, fuck, fine,” Dean says, and scratches an uneasy hand through the short hair at the base of his neck, “He was a john.”

“Oh my God, what?” Sam cries, scandalized.

“Not exactly!” Dean rushes to amend, “He almost was, and then he freaked out and threw a bunch of hundreds at me. I saw him the next morning in Trickster and, uh. I dunno, man. You know me. I went and bugged him, ‘cause it was funny. And then shit happened and we like hung out and watched Batman and shit and we’ve been kissing and crap since Christmas and – I don’t know. We’re just the way we are.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, so Dean continues, “He wants to be a teacher.”

“Why isn’t he one?” queries Sam.

“He’s kinda fucked up,” Dean shrugs, “Kinda like me.”

“You’re not –”

“Sam,” Dean says, “Anyway, he’s not fucked up in the same ways. He’s a vet, dude. Whole leg blown off. He’s never told me the story, but he gets nightmares about it.”

“No shit?” Sam says, “You mean he was wearing a prosthetic?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, “But doesn’t like it so don’t you dare bring it up, you hear?”

Sam’s brows furrow and he studies Dean for a second before he says, “Yeah, okay. I won’t.”

They fall into silence. It isn’t awkward, exactly, but it is tense. The air feels thicker with Sam here, and it feels harder to breathe. Dean’s afraid to fuck this up, afraid to disappoint Sam again, afraid to do all the things that Sam hated him for in the first place.

“Dean?” Sam says, and only then does Dean realize he’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

They’re next to the bench that he and Cas like to sit on when they come here, where they drink coffee and talk about the books that they’re reading and discuss favorite superheroes and what type of bender they would be. Castiel says he thinks he’d like to be an airbender. Dean isn’t sure whether he’d bend fire or bend earth.

“You wanna sit?” asks Sam.

Dean nods.

They still don’t talk, even with bodies lowered on the bench and nowhere to go. Dean used to play this scenario out in his head when he first ran from Sioux Falls: What would happen if he saw Sam again? He thought he’d probably hug him and say he was sorry for the burglary and sorry for drinking too much and sorry for all the crap he did, but now – now, Dean isn’t fucking sorry. He did all those things for Sam and he’d do it again.

“Dude,” Sam finally says, speaking softly, “I’m so fucking sorry for that crap I said before you left.”

“Nothin’ that wasn’t true, Sammy,” Dean replies, and stares straight ahead at the empty playground in front of them. There’s enough wind that the swings sway with ghost riders, and some of the metal creaks against the pressure, squealing.

“Come on, what?” Sam stares hard at Dean, “You – I was wrong, dude. I mean, the shit about you being like dad and that you’d failed me, or whatever the fuck I said. None of it was true. It’s still not true. I mean, yeah, I’m pissed that you’ve been doing whatever the fuck you’ve been doing for money, but I know you did so much just for me and I…I guess I’m saying I lacked perspective. I was fifteen, dude.”

“Still smarter than me, even then,” Dean says, a bitter smile bending his lips.

“You are smart,” Sam says.

Dean shakes his head, “Nah. Not really.”

“God, I just wish you wouldn’t say shit like that,” Sam replies, “I never got why you thought that.”

“Can we not do this,” Dean gruffly says.

Sam opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but closes it again, and looks away.

“You _are_ smart,” Sam says again, though more quietly this time.

Dean decides not to acknowledge this and asks, “So, Jessica?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, “She’s really cool. I think you’ll like her when you get to know her. She’s majoring in biochemistry. And she likes Star Wars.”

Dean nods and grins at that, “Hell yeah, Sammy. I knew you had good taste.”

With things left unsaid hanging in the air, Sam and Dean stand. They walk out of the park and back toward Trickster. Inside, Jess and Cas smile and engage in a game of chess. Dean isn’t sure who’s winning. They look evenly matched as far as they can tell.

“How are you feeling?” Jess asks, when they approach the table.

Sam shrugs, “All right,” and he turns back to Dean, “I figured we’d find a motel room and crash for a while.”

“No,” Cas says, and both Dean and Sam turn to look at him, “We’ll put you up at the apartment. We can take out the air mattress. I know it’s not luxurious, but Dean’s family is our family, too.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asks, “We thought we’d stay at least for Dean’s birthday.”

Aw, shit. Cas swivels to look at Dean and asks, “Your birthday’s coming up?”

“Yeah. The twenty fourth,” Dean mutters.

“You didn’t intend to tell me that at all, did you?” Cas folds his arms.

“I didn’t want you to go out of your way to do anything,” Dean says, “It’s not a big deal, man. Usually I just get a slice of pie and hang around.”

“Dean,” Cas says, and scowls, “Your birthday is to be celebrated. We will get you an entire pie, and we will put candles in it and sing Happy Birthday and you will like it.”

Sam casts an amused glance over at Dean.

“Fine,” Dean says, “No gifts.”

“No promises,” Cas says back, and Dean groans.

**X**

Dean inflates the mattress for Jess and Sam back at the apartment while Cas brews a cup of tea for everyone but Dean (he passes a beer to him) and flips on Netflix. They’re a couple episodes into the original Star Trek, which Cas thinks is ridiculous but entertaining and Dean loves without an ounce of guilt.

Sam teases him. It’s something Dean didn’t realize he missed until now, somebody to call him a nerd and laugh when he tells them to shut up.

“Where do _you_ sleep?” Sam asks when Dean gives him the nickel tour.

Dean takes a pull from his beer and replies, “With Cas.”

Sam lifts his brows, “Really?”

“Don’t make me brain you,” Dean says, and rolls his eyes, “It’s not like that. Not yet. I don’t know. Fuck you. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I like him,” offers Sam.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but feels lighter. He doesn’t know why.

After a few episodes of Star Trek, the sun balances low on the horizon. Dean rises from the couch to throw together a dinner – just some chicken and baked potatoes, but especially with Sam now he feels the responsibility to cook. When he retreats to the kitchen, Jess stands and follows.

She pokes her head around the edge of the wall and asks, “You need any help?”

Not really, but she’s nice enough, so Dean says, “Yeah, can you chop up some green onions?”

“Sure thing,” she smiles.

Jessica goes through the movements like a pro, though she does poke through the cabinets and drawers a little before she finds a knife and locates the cutting board. Dean already had the green onions laid out on the counter, and she pulls them from their plastic grocery produce bag.

They chat amiably about Star Wars. Apparently, the first Halloween after Sam and Jess started dating, they went to a party together as Han and Leia. Dean jokes that he’s never been more proud of his brother, and Jessica smiles along with them.

By the time that Gabriel arrives home, the potatoes are just ready to be taken out of the oven. When he sees the air mattress inflated and resting against one of the living room walls, and Sam and Jess, he sighs, “What am I, running a fucking homeless shelter?” and then, “Mm, what’s cookin’?”

“Chicken and potatoes,” Dean answers, “Figured I should whip up a thank you, ‘cause Sam and Jess are staying for a while.”

“For his birthday,” Cas pipes up from his place on the couch, and gives Gabriel a pointed look.

Gabe looks at Dean with a single brow raised, but doesn’t say anything. Dean gets the picture. He’s getting his birthday celebrated, whether he likes it or not.

When they were little, Sam used to do little things to help Dean celebrate, but never anything fancy – they were kids, and he never would have let Sam resort to the same things he did when it was time for Sammy’s birthday. Dean stole and conned money out of nice-looking old ladies just to attain a couple of presents. He knew, even when he was a kid, that their dad would never do it. Most times, their dad wasn’t even around for their birthday. And those times were better than when he was, Dean thinks.

On Dean’s fifth birthday, he cried because he had no cake and his mom wasn’t there to make them all sing. His dad told him to shut up and man up – life wasn’t fair, he said.

No, it wasn’t fair.

The first time that Dean had gotten a present after his fourth birthday had been when he was nine. His dad gave him a gun. Sam drew him a picture. Dean liked the latter present much more.

“Dean, you okay in there?”

Dean snaps out of it, and sees his brother leaning against the counter to his right. Concern shadows his face.

“Fine,” Dean says, but the words come out pained, “Just thinkin’ about old birthdays.”

“Dean,” Sam says again, but Dean shakes his head, a silent plea for Sam to drop it.

Jess and Sam help set the table while Dean brings out the food. Gabriel’s cruddy kitchen table only has four chairs tucked against it, so they pull up the ottoman from the living room, which Gabriel opts to take. Cas smiles at Dean when they tuck into the food, and converses with Sam like they’ve known each other forever. They talk about books that Dean has heard of but never read, and discuss movies that Dean didn’t even know Castiel enjoyed.

At the end of the night, Dean helps fit the air mattress with a fresh set of sheets and wrangles up some spare pillows. He spreads the fleece blanket that he used to use when he slept on the couch over it. Sam smiles as Dean works and says, “It’s like we’re back home.”

“What? I’m nesting,” Dean says defensively.

When he turns out the lights, he thinks Sam might be smiling, but he decides not to dwell on it.

In the bedroom, Cas stretches out, his leg off and leaning against the wall. Dean closes the door when he enters and undoes his jeans, his only action before he climbs, exhausted, into bed. He hasn’t decided if the day was good or not. On one hand, Sammy is sleeping in the other room, and he says he missed Dean.

On the other, Sam brought back a lot of bad memories with him. His presence has dredged up shit that Dean hasn’t thought about for years. He didn’t dwell much on his birthdays after leaving Sioux Falls, because they weren’t a big deal when he was little and they continued not to matter as an adult. But Sam thinks his birthday matters and Cas thinks his birthday matters, and –

“I’m upset with you,” Cas says.

Dean rolls over, suddenly serious.

“What did I do?” he asks.

“Why don’t you want to celebrate your birthday?” asks Cas.

Dean lets out a long, angry breath.

“Do we have to have this talk,” he deadpans.

“No,” Cas says, “But I’d like to.”

And son of a bitch, Cas looks so earnest and fucking well-meaning that Dean sits up and decides to indulge him. He explains what their dad said to him when he turned five, and he explains his ninth birthday. He explains that his favorite birthdays were the ones where his father went missing, probably out at a bar drinking. He even tells Cas about his thirteenth birthday, when John had come home right after Dean put Sam to bed. He’d yelled at his dad, and his dad had given him a black eye in return.

In the morning, when John was sober, he begged Dean for forgiveness. Dean always forgave his dad, but he never forgot that birthday.

When Dean quiets, Cas kisses him. Dean lets him, and then kisses back when he feels the anxiety leak out of him.

“I’ll make this birthday a good one,” Cas promises, and he sounds so sincere that Dean doesn’t bother protesting.

**X**

A kick to the shin jars Dean awake.

The blankets are missing and he’s cold – Cas has the bedding tangled around his body. He squirms and whimpers in his sleep. Dean’s heart skips a beat entirely.

Cas is having a nightmare. He’s never had one with Dean sleeping next to him before. Cas cries out and gropes the air for something, kicking at the sheets tangled around his body. When he moans, Dean kicks into gear. He grips the bedding and peels it away from Cas’ body. He’s hot underneath, almost feverish. A film of sweat covers his forehead and the neck of his t-shirt.

“Cas,” Dean says, and rubs Cas’ arm, “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s Dean. Come on.”

Cas whines again, and Dean keeps talking, “It’s just a dream. Wake up for me. You’re safe, man. You’re safe with me.”

Cas groans and his eyes crack open. When he sees Dean his shoulders seem to get a little less tense. He says, “Dean?”

“It’s me,” Dean says.

“Fuck,” Cas says. His voice cracks and his arms coil around Dean. He presses his nose into Dean’s chest. Dean doesn’t know what to do other than act on instinct, so he wraps his arms around Cas and rubs his back, humming _Hey Jude_ to him under his breath. Cas shakes hard under Dean’s touch. When Dean pauses the movement of his hand, he realizes it isn’t just trembling.

Cas is crying.

“Cas, it’s all right,” Dean assures him, “You’re home.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Cas chants, “I couldn’t save him, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help.”

Dean doesn’t know if he should say anything, so he waits while Cas shivers and the tears abate, leaving the front of Dean’s shirt damp and Cas looking like hell in Dean’s grip. He rubs his palm over Cas’ spine and says, “If you need to, uh. Talk about it. My ears work. Just fyi.”

A pained laugh bubbles up from Cas’ chest and he says, “No. Just kiss me.”

Dean nods. He covers Cas’ mouth with his own. Cas arches into Dean in response.

Dean’s so surprised that he pulls back a little and asks, “You okay?”

“No,” Cas gruffly says, and kisses Dean again. He kisses his lips and then his jaw, and then down to his neck, where he sinks his teeth and Dean lets out a stupidly loud moan at the sensation. Cas licks over the leftover wound and sucks on his skin and oh, fuck, Dean’s hard already. How the hell does he even do that?

This time, when Cas reaches down and feels along Dean’s erection through his underwear, he doesn’t pull away. He lets Cas have his fun, but only until he tries to reach inside Dean’s pants – it’s then that Dean grabs Cas’ wrist like lightning and says, “Not – not yet. I need to get tested. I’m saving up for it ‘cause I don’t have insurance.”

Cas nods.

“But how about this?” Dean says gently, and his palm drifts down to cover the tent in Castiel’s boxers. He palms at him through the fabric and Cas starts to breathe heavily against Dean’s neck, pressing hot kisses and scraping his teeth over the skin there.

When Dean reaches past the elastic waistband of Cas’ underwear, a strangled noise tears out of Cas’ throat. Dean stills and asks, “You need me to stop?”

“Fuck. No, please keep going,” Cas says, breath hot on Dean’s skin, “Your hand feels so fucking good.”

“You got a mouth on you when you’re horny,” Dean laughs, but when Cas bites at his neck again, he revs back up.

Dean closes his fist around Cas and strokes. He’s good at this, he tells himself. This is one thing that he can definitely give Cas better than other people. Smarts may not be his forte, but nobody has better skill between the sheets than he does.

Cas comes within a handful of minutes, choking back a cry into Dean’s shirt.

He pants against Dean for a long string of minutes before Dean shifts up to grab a wad of tissues from the box on Cas’ nightstand. He wipes up Cas first and then his own hand. It’s not perfect, but neither of them wants to get out of bed.

When Dean settles back down, Cas kisses him.

It’s the best payment he’s ever gotten.

**X**

Several days later, on the morning of Dean’s birthday, he jolts out of sleep when the fire alarm goes off. The sound sends Dean reeling out of bed and into a panic when he sees Cas’ side of the bed is empty and cool – he’s been out of bed for a while. The apartment smells tacky and greasy. A thin haze of smoke infiltrates the air and burns in Dean’s trachea.

“Cas!” Dean shouts.

A swear comes from the kitchen and Cas emerges, waving a kitchen towel at the smoke alarm near the stove.

“I’m so sorry,” Cas says, red-faced and exasperated, “I was –” he sighs out relief when the smoke alarm stops blaring, “I was trying to make you breakfast, but I burned everything and then woke you up. Just…I’m sorry.”

Panic liquefies into relief. Dean rubs his hands through his hair and curses, “Fuck, dude. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I…” Cas starts again, but his voice dies off, “I apologize. I wanted to do something nice.”

“Happy birthday, dude.”

Dean turns and sees Sam in pajamas, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Sam rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes before he turns to Cas and asks, “You want me to help clean up? Smells like crap in here.”

Cas’ eyes drift to the floor, and his answer is directed at the linoleum, “If you could. I’m sorry.”

Dean opens his mouth to tell Cas to chill out and that it’s not his fault, but his brother and his whatever-he-is have already disappeared into the kitchen. Thus, Dean wanders into the living room and kicks back on the couch. Jess is awake there, too, still in clad in pajamas like her boyfriend, with glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and a school textbook open on the air mattress in front of her.

Dean doesn’t want to turn on the television and interrupt whatever scholarly activity is happening, so he reaches across the coffee table to retrieve the latest book he’s borrowing from Cas, The Mars Chronicles.

Jess glances up when he cracks open the book and smiles, “Happy birthday.”

Dean shifts in place and says, “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

God, he hates his birthday.

When Sam and Cas finish cleaning up the annihilated breakfast mess, Dean tries to talk them into letting him cook his own goddamn breakfast, which they both refuse to do. Dean is again designated to the couch, where he tries to read but just gets annoyed that he’s not allowed to do anything for himself. He’s only turning twenty four. It’s not like he just got his letter to Hogwarts.

But they do make bacon and silver dollar pancakes, and honestly, who can say no to that?

Mainly Dean just wants to watch cartoons and have a couple of beers and maybe end the night with a loud game of cards and a heavy petting session with Cas in bed, but they all insist on taking Dean into town for lunch and booze and ice cream. It becomes even less fun when Sam inexplicably attains paper party hats and puts one on Dean’s head without permission.

Truthfully, Dean doesn’t know what to do. Gabriel’s at the shop, but Cas and Sam and Jess all have their focus on him, making him happy (even if they’re not doing it the way Dean wishes they would), and celebrating his birth. It’s awkward and difficult to have all focus on him.

When they pull Dean into some record store, Dean finally loses it.

“I have to piss,” he mutters, but instead of the restroom door, he throws himself out the back exit of the shop and tears the paper hat off of his head. He throws it into the dumpster and fumbles around in his jacket pockets for his cigarettes. He hasn’t had one in a while, but he’s down to two in this package. Better pick up some more if this is how the day is gonna be.

Dean lights up and exhales before he parks himself on the curb.

This shouldn’t bother him so much. Almost anybody else would be thrilled to have a day about them. He doesn’t, though, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. His hands shake when he brings his cigarette to his lips.

Dean smears a hand over his face.

He tries to think of the last happy birthday that he had, and wishes that something from his teenage years surfaced to the front his mind. It doesn’t – Dean thinks of the foggy, joyful memory of his fourth birthday party. He remembers having friends over. He remembers streamers and superhero capes that his mom sewed for them all. But mostly he just remembers his mother, bringing out the cake and smiling and singing at the top of her lungs. All at once his chest hurts with the weight of how much he misses her. Twenty goddamn years and still more than anything, Dean wishes that he had his mom.

When he’d show Sammy pictures of their mom, Sam always would say _she’s so beautiful_ , but Dean wanted to tell him that’s not what was important about their mom. Their mom was kind and strong and brave, braver than anyone else Dean has met since.

In one of his more lucid moments, John Winchester told Dean a story of how Mary had been accosted when she and eight-month-old Dean ran to the grocery store for supplies for that night’s dinner. She’d protected Dean and punched one of the culprits so hard that she sprained her wrist.

“Dean?”

Dean jerks around and sees Cas a couple feet behind him. Sam and Jess are nowhere to be seen.

“What,” is all that Dean can force out.

“You just took off,” Cas says, “We were worried.”

“Well, fucking stop it, will you?” Dean snips back, “I’m not into this, man. I don’t like my birthday and I never will.”

“For goodness’ sake, Dean, we’re just trying to do something nice for you,” Cas says back, “You didn’t say what you wanted for your birthday, so Sam thought food and music would be the best plan of action. You’re being a jerk to him.”

That hits Dean in the gut. He didn’t mean to, but of course he let his brother down. Of course he fucked something up when people were trying to make him happy. Dean flicks his cigarette butt onto the parking lot pavement and crushes in underneath the sole of his boot. He pushes his fingers back through his hair, but can’t think of what to say.

Castiel lowers himself next to Dean and asks, “Is there something you need me to do?”

Dean studies Cas and then grunts, “Yeah. Kiss me a little.”

A small smile appears on Cas’ face and he gives a short nod before he leans in, closing his lips over Dean’s. Dean knows he can’t taste very good right now – probably something like chocolate ice cream and tobacco, but Cas tastes amazing. He took spearmint gum from Jess earlier when she offered it, and Dean can’t get enough of that taste on his tongue.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and stands. They return to the shop and Dean mutters a begrudging apology to Sam, who in return tells him it’s all right, and casts a speculative glance at Castiel, as if to ask _how did you do that_? Dean even lets Sam buy him a couple of Metallica tapes without complaining, and thinks about how it would be nice to get a turntable when he’s in a stable place and can afford to have something nice like that. He’s always wanted a record collection. Back home, Bobby had a collection that rocked.

Some days all Dean did was sit in Bobby’s basement and play records and sing along.

He’d forgotten that he did that.

When they finish at the record place, they head back to Gabriel’s apartment. It smells like heaven when they arrive, like pastry crust and fruit and sugar all cooking into one perfect aroma that makes Dean’s stomach jerk, pulling him toward the kitchen.

Gabriel stands in the center of it all, still wearing his work apron, which is now covered in flour and purple-blue stains. The kitchen counters don’t look much better.

“Heya,” he greets with a crooked half-grin, “Happy birthday, Dean-o. A little winged Winchester may have whispered that blueberry pie’s one of your favorites.”

Dean turns around to stare at Sam, who shrugs.

“Huh,” Dean manages, “Thanks, man.”

They don’t make Dean wear another stupid hat when the pie cools from the heat of the oven, but they do make Dean sit at the kitchen table and stick two candles (one polka-dotted wax two and a striped four) between the latticed top of the blueberry pie.

Sam photographs Dean as he blows the candles out, snapping pictures on his fancy iPhone. Dean still has his black eye in them, though it’s faded significantly, and he does look pretty happy.

Gabriel cuts the pie and serves it with grocery store vanilla ice cream. The heat of the pastry and the cool of the ice cream make Dean’s gut jump and his mouth happy, and Christ, it’s actually really fucking nice. Sure, they’re staring at him, and they even subjected him to an off-key round of Happy Birthday, but the pie is amazing and the company even better.

At Dean’s insistence, he does the dishes before they watch the episodes IV to VI of Star Wars. During the second movie, Castiel falls asleep on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean just slips an arm around him. He wakes when the credits of the final film roll, and follows Dean to their bedroom –

Huh. Their bedroom.

Maybe not. It’s still just Castiel’s.

When they climb into bed, Cas says, “I know you said you didn’t want a gift, but –”

“Come on, man,” Dean groans.

“It’s very practical,” Cas says, and hands Dean a piece of slightly-bent white printer paper.

_I owe you a trip to & the payment of one STD testing session._

Dean looks up from the paper and chokes out, “Cas.”

He’s right, it _is_ practical.

And Dean fucking loves it.

Dean closes the space between them to wrap his arms around Cas. At first, all he wants to do is hold him, but then Cas kisses Dean’s brow. When he goes in for Dean’s cheek, Dean turns his head and steals the kiss with his lips, a soft smirk on his face when Cas looks surprised.

He’ll pay Cas back in the best way he knows: Dean slips under the covers and with steady hands pulls Cas’ underwear down his hips and away. He spreads Cas’ legs open wide, strokes him to life, and with a little fumbling with a condom packet, Dean swallows Cas whole. 


	9. We Tend to Bruise Easily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of alcoholism

**Chapter Track: Runs in the Family – Amanda Palmer**

**_We Tend to Bruise Easily_ **

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks.

It’s too early for this. For fuck’s sake, he’s wearing nothing but Castiel’s robe and slippers over his own underwear. And fine, maybe he shouldn’t have gone outside for a morning cigarette in next to nothing, but does not explain the hand-in-the-cookie jar both Sam and Cas are wearing, or why both of them are elbows-deep in the trunk of his baby.

Castiel and Sam exchange a guilty look.

Sam rubs the back of his neck, cracking first. He says, “We’re moving the rest of your stuff up to the apartment. Cas made room on one side of his closet.”

Dean cocks a brow at Cas for confirmation.

“I want the apartment to be as a much a home to you as it is to me,” Cas says simply.

“And you decided to do this without my permission,” Dean says. He flicks a flame to life on his lighter and puts it to the end of his cigarette. When he pulls his cell out of his pocket and sees that it isn’t even yet ten, he knows it’s not just too early for this shit. It’s _way_ too early for this shit.

Sam frowns at Dean and says, “You would have said no.”

“So I would have,” Dean agrees, exhaling smoke, “Put my shit back right now.”

“No,” Sam replies, and levels his chin, and shifts his attention to Cas to elaborate, “Dean struggles with commitment. Like, there was this chick Lisa in high school –”

“Fuckin’ A, how about you gossip about me when I’m not five goddamn feet away, Chuckles,” Dean speaks through the cigarette dangling between his lips, and exhales fragrant smoke from his nostrils. He doesn’t have a fucking commitment hang-up. Hell, at this juncture in his life, he’s more committed to anything than he has been in years. He has his job at Trickster which, son of a bitch, he actually enjoys, and he has Cas. Dean is pretty damn committed to Cas.

Maybe not like, relationship-committed, but there’s _something._ Cas is definitely a friend, at least. That’s pretty goddamn dedicated if you ask Dean.

And if you’d asked him the same question six months ago, he’d have said that he didn’t do friendship.

And okay, having a friend after years in which his closest friend was Missouri the bank teller is kind of awesome.

“Dean,” Cas says, sounding all-too-reasonable, “If you’d truly like us to, we’ll replace your belongings in your car. Otherwise, we’re going to take them up to your half of the closet.” At this, Sam looks over and makes a face, as if to express that this was not a part of the agreement.

Dean sighs out cigarette smoke and runs a hand through the bedhead he didn’t think anybody would be seeing. He consents, “Fuck. Fine. Whatever. Do – whatever it is you’re doing.”

Cas smiles to this, and as he passes with a bundle of Dean’s clothing, he applies a kiss to Dean’s stubbly cheek. Blood colors Dean’s face and he scratches at the place that Castiel kissed. Sam smirks at Dean as he trots by with another bundle of things in his grip. Dean flips him the bird.

By the time that Dean finishes his cigarette and flicks it away someplace onto the tarmac, Cas and Sam have returned. They chat amicably about some movie called the Perks of Being a Wallflower, and then Dean thinks they maybe switch to the book that came before the movie? He isn’t sure, but maybe he should read the book if it puts _that look_ on Cas’ face. Good coffee, post-coital haze and Dean reading Cas’ books always give Cas _that look._

Dean joins them and pulls out a box from the back, one that he doesn’t really want either of them to see.

“Hey, what’re those?” asks Sam, peering over curiously. He sets down the blanket that he rolled up, and before Dean can jerk the box away from Sam’s view, his brother already has a photograph in his hands.

Sam stares at it for a long, tense moment before he lifts his gaze back to Dean, brows furrowed deeply. The earlier cheer and teasing from before is gone, replaced by confusion and – something else, something that Dean doesn’t know if he wants to identify. Dean can guess what Sam’s found, but he flips over the picture so that Dean can see it. It’s one of the long-distance shots of Sam accepting his diploma.

“You were at my graduation?” Sam asks. His voice is cold and angry.

“I wouldn’t miss that, Sammy,” Dean says.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” demands Sam, “I was so fucking upset that you didn’t come, and now I find out that you fucking did? Why didn’t you come home?”

“Because I was under the fucking impression that you didn’t want me in your life,” Dean bites back, “I don’t think you actually remember what shit you said to me that night. ‘You’re just like dad, and you’ll die in a gutter just like dad,’ or ‘You’re a humiliation and I wish I didn’t have to hide you.’ I just left like you wanted. I came to your graduation and sent you money for school because that’s what _I_ wanted. Every day I wake up and you’re still fucking here is a surprise. You know why, Sam? Because I spent years thinking I was a waste of your time. Hell, I’m still a waste of your time. You’ve just warmed up to me.”

Sam stares gape-mouthed at Dean for several heated seconds before he shouts, “What the fuck, Dean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck’?” Dean snaps, “You told me to get out and I did.”

“I was fifteen!” exclaims Sam, “I thought everybody was embarrassing. I thought Bobby was embarrassing, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, Bobby doesn’t have a record like mine,” Dean spits, “Everyone thought I was a fuck-up, so excuse the shit out of me if I wasn’t surprised when you thought that, too.”

“You’re not a fuck-up,” Sam says.

“Yeah? Tell that to the assault and prostitution charges I’m about to go to court for,” Dean replies heatedly, “Tell that to my jail time. Tell that to all the sons of bitches that turned me down for places to live and places to work. The only fucking reason I have anything now isn’t even because of anything I’ve done. It’s because, by some miracle of God, Castiel over there likes me and has a brother with an apartment and a business.”

“That’s not true.”

Both Dean and Sam whirl to look at Cas, who’s standing a few feet away, some of Dean’s things clutched to his chest. He repeats slowly, “None of that is true. You’re a good man and you wouldn’t have me, or Gabriel, if you weren’t. You give so much. I don’t understand how you are so blind to that.”

“I don’t give anybody anything,” Dean says, “I just pay people back for the shit they’ve done for me.”

Cas licks his lips and frowns. His eyes lower to the pavement.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and scrapes fingers through his mussed hair, “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“I think we need to hash this out,” Sam says, “You and me. And then you can talk it out with Cas, too.”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“Because we have to,” Sam says, “Go put on some fucking clothes.”

**X**

Dean pulls the shell of his coat tight around him against the cool air as he and Sam take off down the block. Underneath it, he wears Cas’ Slaughterhouse Five shirt. It doesn’t smell much like Cas anymore, but just the feel of it makes him feel more solid, like some kind of talisman. Like his tattoo, wearing it gives him something to hang onto, a thread of control.

“I need a beer,” Dean complains.

“We’re getting coffee,” Sam says, “You don’t get to drink your way out of having feelings. That’s not healthy, Dean.”

“So fucking what?” Dean complains.

“So I’m not letting you do it, because I didn’t know that the shit I said would do what it did,” Sam snips back, “And okay, fine, that’s my fault. But I need to know what I should apologize for. I mean, I’m sorry for all of it. But Dean? I don’t remember everything that we said. And I think you do.”

Sam raises his brows, expecting a response.

Dean lifts his collar and wraps his arms around himself before he replies, “Yeah. I do.”

It had been only a few months after their dad finally kicked the bucket. John Winchester’s death hit Dean harder than it did Sam. Dean always thought that their dad would get better, that he’d stop drinking and get his shit together, that he’d be the dad Dean knew he could be. He only has vague memories of John before their mother’s death, but John smiles in all of them, something that Dean didn’t see much after their lives went sour.

Sam never had the faith Dean did in their father. It was hard to blame him. Sammy was only six months when their mom died. He doesn’t remember anything from _before_ the way that Dean does. He only remembers dad drunk, dad miserable, dad arrested and Bobby bailing him out, dad having nightmares and insomnia that kept him wandering the house in the wee hours of the morning. Sam doesn’t remember smiling dad.

So when dad wrapped Bobby’s truck around a telephone pole, Sam wasn’t surprised. He didn’t cry at their dad’s funeral – a small ceremony in Bobby’s backyard, where they buried John at the foot of a crudely-carved grave marker – and Dean did cry. He doesn’t do the whole crying thing a lot, except when he’s at his most raw, and then the dam breaks wide open.

Dean took on a lot of crap after John’s death. Bobby gave him a part-time gig at his salvage yard, but the pay wasn’t enough to cover the kind of expenses Sam had. Dean didn’t want his brother left wanting for anything. Not a single fucking thing. He never wanted Sam to be the kid that got laughed at because of his torn-up shoes or for wearing the same t-shirt three days in a row. He was _dirty, a weirdo, a loser._ Dean didn’t want that for Sam.

He’d been drunk when he burglarized this rich couple’s joint. Really drunk. It seemed like a fucking great idea at the time. Get in, grab some shit, get out, Sammy has his school lunches paid for, for the rest of the school year.

But yeah, rich dicks keep security tight. Dean didn’t make it through two rooms before the cops had him bent over the side of a cop car.

With his record, the shit wasn’t pretty. Attempted burglary and conspiracy to commit a felony, and some shit about intoxication that they dropped when he pled guilty. Sixteen months for each charge, served concurrently. It wasn’t bad, but it was still prison time.

“Dean?”

Dean snaps his head up.

Christ, when did they get to Trickster?

This day fucking sucks.

They duck into the shop together. Gabe can tell something is wrong right off the bat – he’s quieter, doesn’t tease them, and serves their coffee in to-go cups instead of the ceramic mugs that he sets aside for regulars.

“You said you hated me,” Dean finally says, when they exit the coffee shop, “That you hated me just as much as you hated dad. You also told me I’d end up buried next to him and something like ‘good riddance, I hope that’s the last time I ever have to see your stupid face.’”

Sam swallows the knot in his throat.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean those things, man. If it helps, Bobby totally laid me out the second that you left.”

Dean shakes his head and sips his coffee. It’s too hot and burns his tongue. The burn proves that this isn’t some kind of fucked up dream. It proves that it’s real. He never wanted to have to talk about this because he never wanted to consider out loud about how true he thinks all those things Sam said are, how they were true then, and how they’re true now.

“I’m sorry too,” Dean gruffly says, “You deserve a better brother than me.”

“Dean, come on,” Sam says, “That’s not what I meant. And it’s not what I meant then, either. I was just so angry, and really stupid. You’ve gotta believe me, dude. I was a dumb kid. Hell, I’m still a dumb kid. But at least now I know that – damn it, dude, you’re the best brother anybody could ask for, okay?”

“Sam,” Dean says, and he says it so softly that it doesn’t come out as the warning that he intended.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am righteously pissed that you didn’t come home after I graduated, but I mean, I spent all this time thinking that you didn’t show up because you hated me. And you did show up and,” Sam takes a breath, “I don’t even know what to do with that information. And I don’t know what to do knowing that you got into sex work just so you could send me money for college.”

“It’s what family’s supposed to do,” mutters Dean.

“Yeah, families are supposed to support each other,” Sam says, and waves his arms with a flourish, “You take it to like, a whole different level. You look out for me like no one else has their family look out for them. And I’ve done a really shitty job doing the same for you so just – please accept my apology?”

Dean studies his brother, but doesn’t speak right away.

Sam goes on, “And, okay, I wanted to move all your crap up into Cas’ room ‘cause – I don’t know, Dean. You give each other _looks_. And I think you…you let him take care of you, which is weird, ‘cause you don’t let anybody do that.”

“Come on, I don’t let him –”

“Seriously? Because I’m pretty sure I watched him tuck you in when you fell asleep in front of the TV last night,” Sam says, and with finality, folds his arms over his chest and makes a Grade-A face at Dean.

Okay. Dean can concede that he gives Cas leeway in places that he doesn’t give it to others. Maybe he lets Cas kiss him and hold him and touch him. Cas knows what it’s like to hurt. He knows what it’s like to do something just for his family – Hell, he went to the Middle East just to prove himself to his clan – and because of that, he _gets_ Dean in a way that Gabe or Sam or even Benny the liquor store guy or Missouri the bank teller don’t, and can’t.

“So,” Sam exhales, “Am I forgiven?”

Dean wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and finally nods. He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair before he answers, “Yeah. C’mere, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam rolls his eyes, but he throws his arms around Dean anyway, and hugs him hard against his chest.

The last time that Dean hugged Sammy was all those years ago, before the fight. Sam found him smoking in Bobby’s backyard in front of the crude grave that contained their dad. He never said anything to Dean, just hugged him. He was much smaller then, still skinny and shrimpy, though within that year he’d added a foot to his height. Now he’s taller than Dean with shoulders just as broad.

Dean lets out a breath he feels like he must have been holding in forever and hugs his brother back. Despite living at the Novak apartment for a solid couple of weeks now, there’s still this scent on Sam that reminds Dean of home, something in his clothes and hair that makes Dean think of how much he wishes he could see Sioux Falls again.

“Bobby wants you to come home,” Sam says. He extracts his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and pulls something up on the screen. It’s one of the pictures of Dean on his birthday, making a face at Sam before he blows out the candles that they stuck in his birthday pie. Sam scrolls down, and sure enough, a _Robert Singer_ has commented on the picture.

“‘Great, so when’s the idiot coming back home?’” Dean reads.

“I think the proper pronunciation is ‘idjit,’” Sam says.

Dean snorts and asks, “Since when does Bobby have a fucking Facebook?”

“Since he realized you could keep tabs on everyone that way,” Sam says, “Jo helped him set it up after I left for school.”

They turn, and start heading back in the direction of the apartment.

“So, um, are you?” Sam asks, “Gonna go home?”

“This kinda is home, dude,” Dean says, “I got a life here. Or a start, anyway.”

At this, Sam’s mouth tilts into a smile, “I’ll tell ‘em you’ll visit sometime.”

**X**

Dean systematically refuses to let either Gabriel or Sam accompany him to his testing at a nearby clinic. Cas goes with him because he’s paying for the tests, but Dean thinks he might have asked him to go even if he wasn’t. Dean’s not huge on doctor’s offices. They smell funny and he always feels eyes on him, even if nobody’s looking at all. It feels that way now in the waiting room, probably because he’s embarrassed that he has to do this.

“Dean,” Cas says, breaking his attention from the three month old National Geographic he was pretending to read, “It’s all right. I get tested once a year whether or not I’m having sex.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s responsible,” Cas replies.

“You would.”

A heavyset Latina in pastel scrubs enters the waiting room and calls, “Dean Winchester?”

Dean stands and urges Cas to come with him. He does, though he wobbles a little when he stands on his bad leg. He does that sometimes if he moves too quickly. When the approach the nurse she offers a pretty grin and asks inclines her head at Cas, “Are you Mr. Winchester’s partner?”

Dean does not actually know how he would answer that question, but Castiel smiles at her and responds smoothly, “Something like that,” and damn it if that doesn’t make Dean feel something stir deep underneath his ribcage.

The nurse takes them back and asks Dean to take off his boots and leather jacket to be weighed, takes down his height, and brings him back to a bathroom and passes him a plastic cup, reciting instructions for a urine test without batting a lash. Dean pretends he isn’t as embarrassed as he is.

When he finishes, she takes Dean and Cas back to a small room and instructs Dean to sit on the papered exam table. She takes his blood pressure and peers in his eyes and ears, scribbling notes on her clipboard the whole time, before she launches into a huge series of questions about his medical and sexual history. He draws in tight to himself when he has to explain the years of “sex work” or whatever Sam called it – Dean likes that term better than _hooking_ or _turning tricks_ , he thinks – and that sometimes if a man paid enough, he’d let the condom requirement slide.

The nurse doesn’t frown at him, though, just writes everything down and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder when she finishes and says, “Doctor Barnes will be in in a few minutes with more questions, and she’ll decide what else you need from there.”

When the door to the exam room closes, Cas asks, “Are you all right?”

“Fucking embarrassing,” Dean mutters.

“You’ll feel better when it’s over,” Cas assures him, “What if I promised that there’s a cheeseburger and a slice of pie in it for you if you get through the whole thing?”

Dean does brighten a little at that prospect. Bribery does work wonders.

Dean doesn’t know what he expected at the sight of the name Doctor Pamela Barnes, but it definitely wasn’t the female incarnation of Dr. Sexy. His brows lift and Cas shoots him an amused smile when a brunette leaning toward middle-aged strides into the room in boots and lab coat. Damn.

“Winchester?” she asks, her eyes flicking to the clipboard.

Dean nods.

“All right,” she says, “Given your history, we’re gonna give you the full monty.”

Dean groans.

“Yup,” she says, “Sorry sugar. Change into these, knock when you’re done, and we’ll get this party started.” She hands him an ugly, mint-green hospital gown.

In spite of the embarrassing series of tests they make him go through, Dean is glad to have Cas with him. Cas talks him through it by relaying all the shit he had to go through after getting his leg blown off, all the testing and physical therapy, and how much he had to rely on other people during those first months after his discharge.

Dean may never have fought overseas, but he’s still facing the consequences of his own war, right here in this clinic in the middle of Lawrence, Kansas. The war didn’t have guns, maybe, but he’s got a hell of a lot of scars, and God only knows what else.

“Okay, when your results are in, we’ll give you a call, okay? We’ll review them here if you’re not clean, and talk about what steps need to be taken to bounce you back,” Pamela, who objects to being called Doctor Barnes, relays at the end of the ordeal.

When Pamela leaves and Dean suits back up in his clothes, Cas instructs him to wait outside while he pays the fee, because he doesn’t want Dean to “get upset” about however much he’s paying. Dean still listens. It’s a lot of money.

They eat at a dive a few minutes away from the clinic, a place that Cas says Gabriel claims has the best pie in the entire Midwest. Gabriel might have been right – but he’s never tried Ellen’s pie, so Dean can’t fault him. The slice of cherry he gets is warm, and a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream melts over it.

As soon as Dean and Castiel return to the apartment, Sam pounces on them.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Take a fuckin’ chill pill,” Dean says, and waves his brother off, “They don’t know shit yet ‘cause they gotta send it to a lab or something. They said they’d call as soon as they know.”

Sam groans, and Dean says, “You’re telling me, dude.”

The night doesn’t end too badly, however. Gabriel passes out some of his hipster beer and Cas plays Vera Lynn while they engage in a few nearly-violent rounds of Uno (“Draw four? You Californian motherfucker!”) and talk about Sam and Jess’ quickly approaching departure. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t going to miss his brother and Jess.

Still, with everything hanging over his head, shit seems okay.

And Dean, somehow, feels okay, too.

 


	10. I Pray You Learn to Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never heard the chapter track this time around, I highly recommend it, because a) Depeche Mode, and b) it is the Destielest song that ever Destieled.
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter Track: Precious – Depeche Mode**

**_I Pray You Learn to Trust_ **

Jess and Sam take off on a Friday morning, clothes clean, car checked out (Dean wouldn’t let them leave in that Honda if he didn’t know it would make it back), and backseat packed with leftover pastries from Trickster. Jess hugs Dean when everything is tucked away into Sam’s car, and surprises him with a soft kiss to the cheek. She pats his shoulder when she pulls away and says, “Thanks for putting us up. And for everything with Sam. I think things’ll be better for him, now.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that compliment, so he just grins and winks before he replies, “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Jess just rolls her eyes and mutters something like _shameless flirt_ as she steps back toward Gabriel and gives him a hug, too. Gabe notices Dean looking and gives him a thumbs up.

“You guys are embarrassing,” Sam remarks.

“What are families for?” Dean shoots back.

Sam shakes his head, but Dean can see him bite down a smile as he swings in for a hug of his own. Dean wraps his arms around Sam and squeezes, wondering how long it’ll be between this hug and the next one. Maybe Sam feels the same thing, because he holds Dean tight against him, so close Dean can feel Sam’s breath where he exhales against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean didn’t realize just how fucking much he missed his brother until now. Now that Sam’s leaving, the whirlwind of family reunion time come and gone, he feels a distinct Sam-shaped hole opening up in his chest. He’s always had his little brother – well, younger brother. Sam isn’t so little anymore. He learned to cope, and now he’s gonna have to learn how to do that coping all over again.

“Dean, I can’t breathe,” Sam complains.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and releases Sam, albeit reluctantly.

“You have my cell number,” Sam says, “And you can call or text whenever, okay? I’ll miss you, dude. Let me know when you get your test results.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, and yanks Sam in for one last hug before he and Jessica head out.

As Sam and Jess climb into the little Honda, Cas saunters up behind Dean and remarks, “It will be quiet without them.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, not really wanting to commit to an agreement.  

Cas brushes his knuckles against the back of Dean’s hand as Sam starts up his car. Both Sam and Jess lean out their windows to wave goodbye, and Cas and Gabe waves back. Dean just nods.

“Awesome,” Gabriel says, “Now the apartment’s back to just the freakshow instead of the entire circus.”

Castiel and Dean simultaneously raise their middle fingers to this, which makes Dean snort and Cas toss a crooked smile back at Dean. Cas moves his hand to the hair at the base of Dean’s neck and strokes the pads of his fingers over it before he leans in and presses a kiss to Dean’s lips.

He’s been prone to this lately – public affection. Dean isn’t used it, hasn’t macked on anybody in the open since high school. It makes him tense, thinking about people seeing him – the problem isn’t that Cas is a guy. God knows Dean’s been caught mid-blowjob with dudes plenty of times before. It’s more the affection. The blatant _I’m attached to someone in some sort of way, even though neither of us has talked about it_. Dean thinks Cas wants to talk about whatever they are about as much as he does, which is to say, not at all.

When they head back into the apartment, Cas excuses himself for a shower, and Dean retreats to their bedroom, where he flops back on the bed and reaches for his book, still The Mars Chronicles. He wishes he could read faster, read the way that Sammy does, but Cas doesn’t ever say anything so Dean’s stopped apologizing for being so slow.

He’s settled into the chapter when he hears the water begin to spray. He knows Cas struggles with settling in – he insists upon keeping his shower chair out of the tub unless he specifically will be bathing, and as Dean understands it, moving the chair is a process, especially if Cas forgets to remove his leg beforehand.

Dean rolls over to get more comfortable when his phone starts to vibrate. He does recognize the number, but he answers anyway, “Dean Winchester.”

“Hey, Mr. Winchester, this is Rosie at the Kansas Cares Clinic. I’m giving you a call to let you know that Dr. Barnes wants you to come in for further discussion about your test results. Is there a time that would be convenient for you?”

“Uh,” Dean begins, because this sounds like bad news, “Yeah…is she free today at all?”

“Mm…if you can make it here in an hour, she has an open slot,” Rosie confirms.

“Can do, sugar,” Dean says.

He hears typing through the silence on the other end of the phone and then Rosie says, “All right, I have you in. See you soon, Mr. Winchester.”

Though he isn’t needed for a while, Dean decides to slip out before Cas gets out of the shower, anyway. He scribbles a quick message on one of the Post-Its on the fridge: _Going out, be back later – Dean_. If the news is bad, he’s not sure that he wants anybody to know but him. He has a little bit of cash leftover from his paycheck from Gabriel. He thinks it’s enough to cover a payment if he needs to.

Dean throws his leather jacket over his shoulders and slides into the Impala. With his things put away inside, she almost feels empty now. It’s nice, though, to see his baby clean for the first time in years. Dean drives her down toward the clinic and parks a few blocks away. Still forty minutes until the appointment, so he wanders around the area with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and watches kids splash in puddles of slush while their parents shovel driveways and sidewalks, and men in orange vests salt the more frequented roads. Dean wishes he had better memories to associate with this time of year. He doesn’t, naturally.

After pacing the surrounding neighborhood, Dean finally makes his way to the clinic, collar turned up against the cold, and hiding his face enough to make him feel comfortable. It starts to snow on the way there, and by the time that Dean pushes through the glad double doors, his hair is damp and his jacket shiny with moisture.

They call him back only a few minutes after he arrives, and instead of measuring and weighing and questioning, a nurse takes him straight back to an exam room.

Doctor Barnes appears only a moment later, less bright-eyed than when he met her.

“What’d I get?” Dean sighs, resigned.

“It’s not bad,” she assures him, “Just take some antibiotics and it’ll clear up in no time. It’s not a surprise that you didn’t know you had it, tiger. Most people don’t until it’s too late. We caught it in its early stages, though, so that’s positive.”

“What is it?” Dean finally snaps.

Pamela sighs, “Chlamydia.”

Dean groans and hides his face in his hands. Fucking awesome. Now instead of just a plain waste of space, he’s a diseased waste of space. Son of a bitch.

“Dean, honey, it’s not that bad,” she assures him, “It’s bacterial. I’m putting you on some pills, and it’ll clear up in a week to ten days. I’d refrain from having sex until then, but if you must, definitely wear a condom. Latex is best. You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No,” Dean says sourly.

“Good,” Pamela says. She tears off a small sheet of paper from a note pad and hands it to him, “Here’s your prescription. Oh, and wear lots of sunscreen if you go out. This shit makes your skin sensitive. You have any complications, you call me stat, you hear?”

“Yeah, I hear,” Dean says, “But I – I’m clean otherwise?”

“As a whistle,” Pamela confirms.

It could be worse, he tells himself. He could be much sicker than he is. Considering all the shit that he’s done, it’s a miracle that he’s only got one measly disease, and something not-too-bad at that. The knowledge of that, however, does not stop the shame from creeping into him, tightening around his lungs and his gut. Stupid, dirty prostitute. It’s all he’ll ever be.

“Don’t be like that, honey,” Pamela says, and rests a hand on his arm, “You’ll make it through this. I know a strong one when I see one.”

Dean mutters this thanks and stuffs the prescription in his pocket. He’ll pick up the medication before he goes back to the apartment, and with any luck, he’ll be able to slip past Castiel and lock himself in their bedroom so that he doesn’t have to talk about it.

Shoulders hunched, Dean exits the clinic and slogs toward the Impala. He slips into the seat and drives until he hits a small grocery joint with a pharmacy attached. It’s dim and kind of crowded inside, which makes him feel even worse than before, like everyone shopping knows what he has in his pocket.

At the counter, Dean passes his prescription to a lab coat-clad young woman with curly brown hair and pretty lips. He might have hit on her in different circumstances, but he’s never wanted to do anything less, now. She takes the paper and tells him it’ll be ready in fifteen to twenty minutes. Dean wanders around for that time, picks up a six pack of non-hipster beer and a box of Cheez-Its, which he passes to the same young woman at the pharmacy counter when he picks up the meds. The medicine is surprisingly cheap, which is a relief. He didn’t want to overextend himself.

When Dean arrives back at the apartment, Cas is passed out on the couch with a book open against his chest. Dean considers waking him up, but doesn’t.

Instead, he retreats to the bathroom, where he studies his reflection. His most recent black eye has faded, and he looks less tired than he has in recent reflections. He doesn’t look like shit the way he used to when he stared back at himself in the scuzzy mirrors of motel bathrooms. His eyes would be hollowed out. Sometimes he was bruised or bleeding. But now, he’s put on weight. His face has more color in it.

Dean stares at the pill bottle in his hand and pops one.

And after this bullshit, he’ll be clean, too. Sure, he still smokes too much and drinks too much and swears too much, though he’s cut down on the fucking. Those things are just Dean, and maybe it’s not healthy, but it’s the way that he does things.

Dean thinks about sticking the bottle of medication in the medicine cabinet, but reconsiders and slips it into the pocket of his jeans. He sneaks out of the bathroom and into the bedroom that he shares with Cas.

Dean locks the door behind himself.

In spite of the change he can see in his face, he doesn’t feel much of a change at the core, under the ribs and in the organs and in between the corners of his mind. There, he’s still dirty Dean Winchester, a boy working the streets, who lets men fuck him for enough money and come on his face if they can pay for it. He’s sick because he risked shit for money, he’d do anything.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Sam: _not clean_

Dean crawls onto the bed and curls into himself, red-faced and miserable.

There he falls asleep, and hopes that he doesn’t have to dream.

**X**

“Dean, I know you’re in there. Let me in,” Cas voice sternly says on the other side of the bedroom door.

“I’m sleeping,” Dean snaps, though he’s been awake for the better part of an hour, now. He heard Cas jiggle the doorknob a while ago and leave, and from there he tried to formulate what the hell he was going to say. So far, all he’s thought is that he doesn’t want to tell Cas at all. He wants to lie, to say that he’s clean – but then he’d have to lie and say that he doesn’t want to fuck Cas, and he does want to fuck Cas.

Dean feels guilty as hell for how much he wants it. He wants Cas naked and under him. Hell, he wants Cas naked and on top of him, and that’s not something he thinks about every guy he’d like to get dirty with.

“Dean,” Cas repeats. The syllable is frustrated and worried. Guilt sinks in further, sticky and too-sweet in his gut, black sugar rotting his insides.

He rolls to face the door and says, “I can’t do this, man. Just fuck off for a while.”

“I absolutely refuse to fuck off,” Cas replies, and then adds, “I know how to break a door in, and I will make you pay for the replacement.”

“Christ, fine,” Dean grumbles, and pads to the bedroom door. The pills rattle around in the pocket of his jeans. Dean clenches his teeth and shoves his hand in his pocket to hold the bottle steady, opening the door with the other.

Cas sweeps in the second that the lock clicks open, and closes the door behind him. He sits on the edge of the mattress and points to the place beside him. Dean, obediently, lowers himself next to Cas.

“You are going to tell me what happened,” Cas says.

Dean massages his temples and says, “Dude –”

“I will trade you information,” Cas says, “You may ask me something, anything, if you tell me why you’ve locked yourself in my bedroom for an entire evening.”

Dean swallows and nods. Okay, he can do that. Then it’s even. Equal.

“What do you dream about?” Dean blurts, “No cop outs, man. I know it’s overseas. I wanna know what.”

Cas looks pale, but resigned. He nods and sighs, “I can’t…talk too much about it. I feel…ill, when I do. Suffice it to say that a friend died because I couldn’t save him. Because I was a coward.”

“Oh,” is all that Dean manages, “I have chlamydia.”

Cas’ lips part and he says, “Dean, that’s great news!”

“Did you actually just tell me that my chlamydia is great news?” Dean asks.

Cas colors and scratches the back of his neck before he answers, “I mean, it’s an incredibly common and easily treated sexually transmitted disease. It could have been so much worse – I was so worried. Ah, let me kiss you.” Cas cups each side of Dean’s face with his hands and pulls him in, planting an enthusiastic kiss on his lips before he breaks away and draws Dean in for a hug.

This is definitely not the reaction that Dean expected.

“I have no idea what the hell is going on,” Dean grunts into Cas’ t-shirt. He smells like masculine deodorant and fabric softener and it’s doing something crazy to Dean’s brain.

“I’m just pleased,” Cas says, “Aren’t you?”

Dean pulls himself back. He feels the tension in his body, his limbs pulling close into his body of their own accord. Cas tilts his head in that curious way he does when he’s trying to figure something out, and then frowns.

“Dean,” he says gently, “This does nothing to change my opinion of you. You’re a good man, and I won’t stop telling you that until you believe me.”

“Guess you’re gonna be saying that for a damn long time, then,” Dean replies.

Cas doesn’t look happy at this, but Dean’s phone vibrates into the conversation. Sam’s name flashes across the front and – oh, shit, Dean never elaborated after he texted Sam, before he fell asleep. He flips open the phone and answers with a brusque, “Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean! I have been trying to get ahold of you for hours,” Sam says, “What do you mean ‘not clean’? What did your test results say? Are you okay? Is Cas with you? Jesus Christ, I texted you like six times, jerk.”

“Ease up, cowboy,” responds Dean, “It’s – ugh, shit.”

“It’s what, Dean?”

“Fuck. It’s chlamydia, okay? Christ, I already hate that fuckin’ word,” Dean rubs a hand over his face, and Cas places his palm against Dean’s back, a gentle pressure that makes Dean feel slightly less like a piece of shit.

“Oh. That’s such a relief, though, right?” Sam says, “Holy crap, it could’ve been so much worse. Do you have antibiotics?”

“Yeah, the doc hooked me up,” Dean says.

“Then you’ll be fine, you idiot,” Sam says, and a breath rattles through the receiver, “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me. I thought you had cancer or something and had like six months to live, but no, just chlamydia.”

“It was an STD screening. How the hell did you get cancer out of that?”

“Well, I assume you did get a finger up the –”

“Yeah, okay, this conversation is over,” Dean interrupts, blood heating his face.

“Hey, wait a minute, don’t hang up,” Sam protests, “I love you, okay?”

“Right,” Dean awkwardly says, “Love you too, Sammy.”

“Make sure you take your antibiotics.”

“Okay, _mom_ ,” Dean says.

“I’m gonna text you to make sure you do it, just in case,” Sam says.

“Fine. Can I hang up now?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and Jess says hi,” Sam adds.

“Tell Jess I’ll be waiting in Lawrence whenever she gets tired of you,” Dean teases.

“Ha fucking ha,” Sam says.

Sam hangs up first and Dean stares at his phone, the minutes spent speaking flashing back up at him in blue before the screen goes black. An amused smile tilts Cas’ lips when Dean glances up. Some awful combination of feelings hits Dean in the gut at full throttle – he still has the feeling of filth all over him, crawling on his skin like ants, but…his brother seems unfazed and Cas – well, Cas is whatever Cas is.

“Hmm,” Cas hums and reaches over to rub his palm over Dean’s upper arm, “There’s beer and The Dark Knight waiting in the living room if you’re interested.”

“Dude, _yes_ ,” Dean says, and follows Cas out.

**X**

Two nights later, Cas has his second nightmare with Dean in bed. Somehow in sleep they drifted together, Dean tucked up under Cas’ chin and against his chest. He wakes when Cas whimpers and shifts restlessly against him. And like last time, Dean wakes him up and rubs his back and hums Hey Jude. He doesn’t ask Cas about his nightmares even though he wants to. Cas just repeats things that he’s said to Dean before. _I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t save him._

Dean doesn’t ask who _he_ is.

On Wednesday, Dean bakes his first pie at Trickster. It’s nothing complicated, just an apple cinnamon, but the slices sell out within three hours and he can’t help but feel a rush of pride at that.

On Thursday, when Sam texts Dean his standard _take your antibiotics_ text, he adds a picture of a sandy-haired, bespectacled kid sitting a few desks away from him, wearing a cape. He captions this with _This dude wears a cape every Thursday. Do not know why._ Dean laughs, and arrives to his shift with a dumb grin on his face. Gabriel teaches him some basic latte art tricks. Dean tries the latte art out on every drink that he makes that day, with mixed results.

Another nightmare christens Saturday at half-past two in the morning, this terror so bad that Dean walks Cas out to the bathroom and makes him sit up on the toilet seat while he fills a glass of water from the tap and instructs him to breathe. He thinks that’s what you’re supposed to do, anyway. He should probably google it.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, when Dean brings the water from the kitchen, “I’m so sorry.”

“Dude, chill out,” Dean says, though he hardly has room to speak. These nightmares put him on edge, too. He goes on, “Let me take care of this, okay? Have you – um. Maybe you should get a person to talk to? I think they have those. You know. For vets.”

“I don’t need anybody to talk to,” Cas bites out.

The frost that edges his voice takes Dean so far aback that he doesn’t suggest that again. He just makes Cas finish drinking the glass of water, waits until the pained breaths rattling his ribcage settle, and brings him back to bed. Dean pulls the covers over Cas’ body and slips in beside him, but when he edges over to Cas on the mattress, Cas slips out of his grip and curls away.

Dean pretends he didn’t notice.

Sunday is strange, because Dean wakes up to an empty apartment before he heads to his shift at Trickster, and when he comes home, discovers that Castiel decided to attend an early morning church service. He doesn’t say why, and Dean doesn’t ask.

Then the antibiotics run out, something that surprises Dean more than it should have. Sam sent his usual text reminding him to take them, and Dean meandered to the bathroom to obey.

 _dont have any left,_ he sends back.

_Dude, so you’re clean?_

_dunno. gonna call doc_

Dean calls the clinic after he jacks a cup of coffee from the pot that Cas set to brew while he showered. The receptionist transfers him to Pamela.

“Hey, doc, I finished my meds,” he greets.

“What, no ‘how are you, Pamela?’” she asks.

Dean rolls his eyes and recites, “How are you, Pamela?”

“Fabulous, thank you for asking,” she responds, voice husky with laughter, “So you finished your medication? Means you’re clean, tiger.”

“Yeah, but –”

“You want to be sure,” she finishes for him, “How about you come into the office in…say, three hours. We’ll test you again and send your sample to the lab. It’ll take a few days to come back and it’ll cost you some money, but it’ll give you peace of mind.”

“Yeah. Yeah, perfect.”

“All right, sugar. I’ll see you later today.”

“See you, doc.”

Dean finishes his coffee and scrambles himself some eggs. He has the late shift tonight – Gabriel’s trusting him with closing up shop for the first time and he feels kind of important being allowed to do it.

When Cas emerges damp and clean-smelling, leg attached and fresh clothes flung over his body, he doesn’t comment on the pill bottle tossed into the bathroom wastebasket. He just leans over Dean and places a kiss on his temple. When Dean smiles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, Cas laughs and tells him to _chew his damn food._

Dean heads to the clinic hours later, but he lies to Cas and says that he’s leaving early for work to try out a new pie recipe. He feels a little guilty, but doesn’t want Cas to know how fucking torn up he is about this whole STD ordeal, and how much he wants to be sure that he’s clean. How much he wants to tell Cas that yes, he can touch Dean and be one hundred percent sure that he’s telling the truth.

At work he practices latte art and closes up without a hitch. Gabriel rewards him with the purchase of a six pack of beer, non-hipster.

It’s a strange week. Sometimes when Dean’s at work he pauses and everything seems surreal, like he’s dreaming the entire past few months and he’ll wake up in the backseat of the Impala, kinks in his neck and ass sore. He distracts himself from the dream-like qualities of it all by pouring his brain into making weird latte art for his favorite regulars and kissing Cas stupid when they’ve got the time alone.

And on one evening, he even jacks Gabriel’s laptop and types into Google: _lawrence ks firefighter training._

**X**

Having started his shift at five o’clock in the goddamn morning, Dean gets off at two in the afternoon. He hangs his apron up in the backroom and collects his phone and wallet from his locker. He has a couple texts and a missed call. The voicemail icon rests in the top right-hand corner of his phone screen.

Dean checks the texts first – one from Sam, one from Cas.

Sam’s just says _Cape guy has switched his attire. Now wearing cloak,_ to which Dean responds, _dude what i wanna fuckin cloak._ Because, come on, that would be badass.

Cas’ text, meanwhile, is a picture. Dean pulls it up and very nearly drops his phone into the middle of the street. That is definitely an erection. Fuck, that is definitely an erection that belongs to _Cas_. The timestamp on it says Cas sent it only a couple minutes after eight in the morning, when he typically takes his shower. The caption says _I thought of you this morning._

 _christo_ is what Dean sends back to him.

He checks the voicemail last, anxious all at once when a grainy recording of a familiar female voice plays against Dean’s ear.

“Hey tiger, it’s Pam. We got your lab results back, and it’s good news. You’re virgin-clean, baby. Now go celebrate with that handsome man of yours, hmm?”

Overwhelmed. That’s the word for this.

Dean closes his phone and has to lean against his car to take in a deep, bone-rattling breath.

“I’m clean,” he has to say to himself, but the words still don’t sink in, so he repeats, “I’m _clean_.”

Dean has to tell Cas.

He jumps into the front seat of the Impala and starts her up, jetting off down the street. He parks crookedly and doesn’t even care. Whatever, he’ll be that asshole today, because he’s clean. He’s clean, goddamnit. He jogs up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, and his hands shake so much that it takes three tries for Dean to get his key into the apartment door.

Dean bursts in to find one surprised Cas with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other.

“I’m clean!” Dean announces, and yanks Cas’ coffee out of his hand so that he can pounce.

“You –” Cas starts.

Dean doesn’t let him finish, “I made them test me again just to be sure. I’m clean.” And he swoops in to capture Cas’ lips in his own. The kiss turns aggressive fast, as soon as Cas wraps his arms around Dean and holds him hard against his mouth. Dean nips down on Cas’ lower lip and licks into his mouth, and Cas’ fingernails bite into the skin at the back of Dean’s neck.

“C’mon,” Dean says, pulling the book in Cas’ hand away and setting it on the coffee table. He tugs Cas up to his feet and along to the bedroom, where he pushes Cas back on the mattress and divests himself of his t-shirt in one swift movement.

“Wow,” Cas breathes. He reaches and brushes his fingers against the bare skin of Dean’s chest. Over his tattoo and ghosting against the scars. Dean moans, and the sound makes Cas’ blue eyes cloud over with heat and need. He grips Dean by the shoulders and tugs him down into a searing kiss, a kiss so hard and mindless that their teeth clash and lips go spit-slick.

Dean’s hard, hard just from that. He can only barely get out, “Want you.”

Cas just nods. He slides up into a sitting position, but hesitates at the hem of his shirt. The lust fades just a little, and Cas says, “I’m – I have scars,” he says, “I just. They’re not like yours.”

Dean pulls the shirt up the rest of the way.

Cas looks incredible. He has fewer scars than Dean, but the ones that he does have are darker. There’s a long, precise mark on his abdomen from a surgery, and a scar near his shoulder that looks like it once must have been a bullet wound. His belly is soft but his arms well-muscled, military muscled. A trail of dark hair crawls from his navel and disappears underneath the waistband of his plain, white boxers.

“Damn,” Dean says. He ducks down and kisses Cas’ neck. Then his collarbone. Then the scar on his shoulder, and the scar at his gut. He moves back up to breathe over one nipple, and then presses his tongue down against it. Cas inhales sharply, and Dean latches his lips over it.

Cas groans. Dean scrapes his teeth over the same sensitive area and moves to the other, paying just as much attention there. He wants to worship Cas’ body, wants to know every corner of it, and he can now, he can because he’s clean. He bites at Cas’ neck and runs his fingers through his hair and palms everywhere he can reach.

Cas’ pajama pants need to be off. Those and the boxers both.

Dean makes quick work of them.

When he looks back up, Cas is actually blushing.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yes…I. Um, I haven’t allowed anyone to see me naked in a very long time,” Cas says, “And I don’t know whether or not to feel embarrassed.”

“Dude,” Dean says. His chest hurts because, damn it, Cas is fucking awesome. He repeats, “Dude,” and crawls over Cas to kiss him. The touch of lips is ginger, more tender than Dean thought that it would be, but he rolls with it, peppering kisses over Cas’ stubbly cheeks and worried brow and in his mussed, dark hair.

“Never be embarrassed,” Dean murmurs. Cas just nods.

Dean shifts off of Cas and stands to undo the fly of his jeans, pushing them down over his hips. He almost starts to fold them like he would before a session with Alastair, but with a streak of disgust at that realization tosses them over his shoulder and rids himself of his boxer briefs in much the same way.

So he’s naked. Consensually. With a dude he really wants to be with.

Dean grips his cock and rubs it, a reminder that he hasn’t forgotten it.

From the bed, Cas whispers, “Fuck,” in a voice so quiet and so wrecked that Dean’s back on him in an instant.

He grinds his hips down and teases a strangled noise from Cas’ throat. The friction has such a profound effect on Cas that he flips Dean onto his back with a growl and kisses him hard. Cas jerks his hips forward against Dean’s hot skin. Dean reaches up and latches onto Cas, anchoring himself. He’s going crazy, he thinks. That’s how good this is. It’s nothing short of insane.

They kiss and move against each other, naked and sweating and breathless.

But when Cas’ hand drifts from the small of Dean’s back to reach his ass, tracing along the cleft, Dean draws back. His heart palpitates and he shakes his head before he even knows what he’s doing. He says, “Shit, sorry. I’m not – I can’t do that yet.”

Cas smiles and kisses the center of Dean’s forehead. He says, “Okay. How about this?”

Cas closes one large, calloused fist around both of their cocks, and runs it up and down. Dean lets out an obnoxious groan and throws his head back against the striped pillow behind him. He says, “Fuck, yeah. Dude. That’s perfect. Keep doing that.”

Cas kisses Dean while he works his hand over them both, smothering noises into Dean’s mouth, rocking his body against Dean’s. It’s so dirty and so wonderful. Dean feels light, tingling. A heaviness starts to build in his abdomen, and he only has a second before he’s shouting, “Fuck, fuck. Cas, I’m gonna come.”

Cas watches, eyes heavy-lidded as Dean comes in hot ropes on his stomach. He hasn’t come like this since high school. Christ. Cas leans over and kisses Deans neck before he releases Dean’s dick and straddles him full-on, moving his hand over himself.

“Holy shit,” Dean sputters, and watches Cas jerk his fist over himself, kiss-swollen lips parted and eyes mostly closed.

He comes on the edge of the most gorgeous goddamn noise.

“Fuck,” Cas says, when he collapses on the mattress beside Dean.

Dean agrees, “Fuck is right, man. We’re a mess.” Sweaty and covered in come, and neither of them can wipe the stupid grins off of their faces. When Cas closes the space between them for another kiss, they end up laughing, laughing about nothing.

“Shower?” suggests Dean.

“Ugh,” Cas says, “Then I’d have to get my chair.”

“I can get it,” Dean says, and tousles Cas’ sex hair, “Wait here. I’ll get it set up and help you over there.”

Cas nods, but when Dean stands, he closes his fingers around his wrist and pulls him back. He urges Dean into one, final, awesome kiss before Dean stumbles out of the bedroom.


	11. Through Bullets and Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for alcohol as a coping mechanism and a PTSD flashback.

**Chapter Track: Hero of War – Rise Against**

**_Through Bullets and Haze_ **

It occurs to Dean that he’s never seen Cas without a shirt when he sees Castiel’s wings.

It’s one of the most intricate tattoos that he’s ever seen: black and white, ink shaded with such perfection that they look real enough to touch. When Dean presses the tips of his fingers to the lines of the tattoo, Cas shudders. Underneath the lines of the wings, it’s just sex-scented skin stretched over hard muscle, none of the soft feathers that Dean almost expected to feel.

“I had a friend in Paktika that believed in angels,” Cas says at the brush of Dean’s fingers over the image.

“What happened?” Dean asks.

“He died.”

**X**

Dean sits sprawled on the couch with Gabriel’s laptop balanced on his legs and feet rested on the coffee table beside a lukewarm, half-full mug of joe. The water runs behind him in the kitchen, and he hears Cas shuffling through dirty dishes, rinsing and stacking them in place in the dishwasher. Dean, meanwhile, flicks back to one of the webpages that he has to have visited at least twenty times in the last handful of days. He glances from the KU website to the window. Gabe's bright, beaded curtains make a festive frame for gray weather. 

Before Cas, on days like this, Dean would have spent the day holed up inside a diner or a coffee joint until they kicked him out. He remembers picking Trickster for this ritual a couple of times, remembers Gabriel letting him stay late but other employees kicking him out at the three am closing time. It's nice to have someplace semi-permanent. The apartment is small, but it's homey and heated. Here, there's Batman and fleece blankets, Gabe's imported coffee and hipster beer, the cheese popcorn Cas keeps buying even though Dean insists he can buy it for himself, now. 

And there's his makeshift family, Cas and Gabe. They're different than the family that he left behind in Sioux Falls, but they matter just as much.

“‘Kansas Fire & Rescue Training Institute,’” Cas reads, “Dean, are you thinking about going to school?”

Dean jumps and complains, “We need to get you a bell or something, holy shit.” How he can be so goddamn sneaky with a peg-leg remains a mystery.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cas pointedly says.

Dean rubs a hand back through his hair and says, “Dunno. Been dicking around on the internet and looking shit up. I’m gonna have to think about money, dude. There are a couple classes I can take through the fire department, but if I want to have the best chance of making the cut – it looks like this is the kind of crap I’ll need.”

“You really have been looking,” Cas marvels, and joins Dean on the couch, “You should do it. I could pitch in some money.”

“I am not taking your money,” Dean replies, “I’ll figure it out. It’s not a big deal. Just a pipe dream.”

“Are you kidding? The only thing you’ve ever wanted more is my dick,” Cas deadpans.

Dean stares, and at the seriousness on Cas' face, bursts into laughter. He says, “I can’t fuckin’ believe you just said that to me.”

“I speak only the truth,” replies Cas, and hooks a finger in the collar of Dean’s t-shirt to pull him forward into an enthusiastic kiss.

But when they break apart, Dean’s dumb grin dies with the look of seriousness on Cas’ face. He says, “You should do it.”

Dean hesitates and slides Gabriel’s laptop off of his legs and onto the coffee table, where he closes it, carefully. It’s a Mac-something-or-other, and he knows Gabriel values the thing almost as much as he values his business. Possibly more. He runs a hand through his hair and says, “I dunno, Cas. It’s –” God, how to explain this? Being a fireman is something he wanted so badly as a kid, to save people like his mom couldn’t be saved. It’s a pure dream, and if he fails, he’s fucked it up. It’ll be marred by his failure to fulfill what his kid-self wanted so badly. And he’s already failed his kid-self in so many ways.

“I know,” Cas says softly, and something in his tone makes Dean believe it. Cas doesn’t speak very much about his old desire to be an English teacher. Cas doesn’t actually talk about much, period. And even with the obvious not-talking that Cas does, Dean knows. He knows that Cas has things he wants to do and things he wants to be, and he also know he's probably afraid. Though he'd never admit it, Dean understands that fear. Hell, he's so familiar with that fear that it consumes him sometimes.

Cas goes on, “There’s a popular saying that tells us the only true way to fail is to never try at all.”

Dean wants to groan at that, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “I’d have to get in shape. There are a metric fuckton of physical requirements, and I’m kind of like, super out of it, man. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Cas studies Dean for a long, long moment. He has that expression on his face that tells Dean he’s smack dab in the middle of mulling something over, and not to dare interrupt said mulling. On the end of a sigh, Cas says, “I could help.”

“Dude, what?” Dean doesn’t understand.

Cas coughs, “Soldiers are also subject to rigorous physical training. I haven’t tried running on this leg, but…I’ve read that it can be done. Many amputees begin running with a standard prosthetic, as I understand it. And quite frankly, I could also probably use the exercise.” He pats his stomach and Dean snorts and gives him a little shove.

Dean coughs into his hands and rolls his shoulders back. The gravity of Cas’ offer – shit. Cas would be out in the open with his leg out for the world to see, something that he’s sensitive about despite the reassurances of both Dean and Gabriel that anybody that treated him differently because of it is just a shithead and he shouldn’t worry.

“Cas, are you sure?”

“To be entirely honest, no. I am not sure,” Cas admits, “But there are many things I find myself unsure of when it comes to you, Dean.”

“Same here, man,” Dean nods. Cas is uncharted territory. He does all sorts of crazy shit to Dean’s head and the space under his ribcage and his gut, things that no one’s ever managed to do before. He’s just been rolling with it, instead of getting caught up in the details.

“Then we should try it,” Cas decides, “I know you dislike waking up early, so I believe we should run in the evening. Also, we should purchase you running shoes.”

“Aw, come on –”

“Be practical,” Cas says, and Dean can’t argue with that.

**X**

Later that same afternoon, Dean buys a pair of moderately-priced sneakers. They’re nothing fancy, but they’ll do the trick, and he likes that they’re just plain black shoes and not weird neon colors like so many of the other pairs of shoes that Cas tried to get Dean to put on his feet. Cas, as it happens, owns running shoes that he unearths from the deepest depths of the back of his closet, moving aside old shoeboxes and sending dust flying.

Dean and Cas don’t run until evening on the following day, when Dean arrives back at the apartment from his shift at Trickster. He’s worn down but Cas says they’re going to work out anyway, because “when” Dean is a firefighter, he’ll have days when he’s tired and still has to push on.

Dean can’t debate against that, really, though he doesn't have the same faith in himself that Castiel has in him.

They change into loose-fitting workout clothes, basketball shorts and old, holey t-shirts. Dean watches Cas carefully as he instructs them through a stretch routine in the living room. He doesn’t seem focused on his exposed prosthetic, but sometimes the dude is hard to read.

“We’ll start with a jog,” Cas says when they make it outside the apartment complex, “I don’t think either of us could run right now if we wanted to. We’ll cut through the neighborhood on that bike path, circle the park twice, and then come back. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean says.

And shit, Cas really knows what he’s doing. His lips are set in a hard line as they take off down the walk, eyes focused on the path ahead instead of being fixed on Dean, as they so often are.

It takes a matter of minutes for Dean to be winded, which is pretty pathetic, if you ask him. Cas is breathing hard too, but he hasn’t slowed down. Dean doesn’t want to be outdone no matter how much his lungs burn and his legs protest, so he keeps pace with Castiel and sweats it out. This might be easier if he had kick-ass music to go along with it. Some AC/DC or something else to get him going. For now, all he’s got is the sound of each labored exhale clashing against the sound of Cas’ own breath coming hard.

By the time that they make it back to the building, sweat slicks Dean’s entire body. He smells nasty and his body feels some combination of awful and fucking awesome. He used to work out some in high school, mostly as an avenue to impress the people that he found attractive. To say he’s out of practice now is world’s biggest understatement.

“Good?” Cas pants.

“Need a fuckin’ shower,” Dean grunts back, and Castiel lets out a breathless little laugh.

Dean insists upon taking the elevator despite a half-assed argument from Cas that they shouldn’t be lazy.

Inside the apartment, Gabriel still hasn’t made it back home. Dean figures it best to take advantage of this time alone with Cas and sets up his shower chair so they can bathe off the exercise-smell together. Cas, like the last time they showered together, seems tense, so Dean leans down and kisses the sweat-damp skin beneath Cas’ ear before he suggests, “What if I promise I’ll make it worth your while, hotshot?”

Which is how Dean ends up on his knees in the bathtub, a sudsy, naked Cas sitting in his shower chair like a goddamn throne, and a cock halfway down his throat. Cas has this taste that Dean can’t get over, a raw and bare taste that’s so much better without a latex barrier between them.

Before all the bullshit went down in Sioux Falls and Dean’s foray into fulltime sex work, he used to love the taste of people between their legs – bits and pieces totally irrelevant, sex had once been something great. For a long-ass time, he didn’t think he’d ever feel the rush of excitement he used to during sex, the adrenaline and anticipation. But he does again with this dude. He savors the little leap his chest makes every time he coaxes an appreciative noise out of Cas’ mouth. He loves every little spasm and gasp.

Every sound that Cas makes is throaty and gravelly and fucking awesome. He mutters stuff under his breath that Dean doesn’t understand, and sometimes there’ll be a hitch of his hips and a helpless _Dean_ that makes Dean harder and harder between his running-sore legs.

They don’t make it out of the shower until Cas comes with a cry down Dean’s throat and have a languid after-fellatio make out session that lasts way longer than it should because Cas thinks it’s a bright idea to wrap his hand around Dean’s dick and go to town. Dean comes all over Cas’ chest and they spend too much time kissing between cleaning each other up.

“Good to know _somebody_ is having a good night,” Gabriel says when they both emerge wrapped in towels.

“Gabriel,” Cas warns, but he’s smiling.

“Shit, Dean, the way you work your mojo on my brother, I’m kinda curious what skills you’ve got,” Gabriel says, “I haven’t heard him speak Pashto since before Afghanistan. And that was some _damn_ dirty Pashto.”

Dean glances over at Cas and smirks.

Cas rolls his eyes.

They retreat back to the bedroom to change into pajamas. Dean tosses his still-sweaty running clothes into the wicker laundry hamper in the corner of Castiel’s room and asks, “Dude, you got any other running shit? That’s all I had and fuck if I’m wearing those again ‘til they’re clean.”

“Mm,” Cas says, wriggling into a Catch 22 t-shirt, “Check my side of the closet.”

Dean pulls boxers up over his hips and obeys. He sifts through the clothes on the hangers first and stops when reaches a uniform. Dress blues.

“Please don’t touch those,” Cas says, and Dean jerks back in surprise.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s all right,” Cas says, “If I have any spare work out clothing, it’ll be folded near the bottom.”

Dean nods and kneels, shuffling around in the musty mess that makes up the bottom of Cas’ side of the closet. He sneezes and Cas chuckles, “Obviously I haven’t done any working out in quite some time.”

And then Dean knocks over a couple of the shoeboxes shoved way in the back.

“Shit,” he mutters, and makes to duck his head under Cas’ clothes to gather up whatever it is that he just spilled out onto the floor. There are a few photographs and postcards that he piles into his hands before he pulls out the shoebox to replace them.

Whoa.

“Dude, what’s this?” Dean asks, and lifts a narrow case into his hand. A twin case sits beneath it.

“Dean!” Cas exclaims, but Dean’s already opened it.

“Holy crap, man. Is this legit?” Dean swivels around and displays the Purple Heart.

Cas yanks the case out of Dean’s hand and slams it closed, but Dean already has his hands on the second one and demands, “Dude, do you have _two_ of these things?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Cas says with acid in his voice. He reaches to pull the second case out of Dean’s hands but Dean jerks it away.

Fury distorts Cas’ features into something that Dean hasn’t seen since they fought over the reveal of Cas’ prosthetic. He leaps for Dean, a bad choice without his prosthetic on, and lays them both out over the carpet, struggling for the second Purple Heart. Dean keeps it out of his reach and asks, “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a favorite subject of conversation, _Dean_ ,” Cas snaps. He manages to jerk the case out of Dean’s grip, and instead of putting the cases back in the shoebox from the bottom of the closet, he launches them across the room. A _thunk thunk_ punctuates each strike of the medals’ cases hitting the wall.

“Holy shit, man, you can’t just throw those,” Dean says.

“They’re mine, and I can do whatever I damn well please with them,” Cas responds.

“Dude, what the hell?”

“Dean, drop it,” Cas says.

“No, come on –”

“They have _nothing_ to do with you. It’s not your business. We’re friends, Dean, but you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me or what happened to me overseas,” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t know why this slaps him so hard. Cas is right. He doesn’t know anything about what happened to Cas in the Middle East, except for the vagaries that Cas supplies when he’s half-asleep and terrified from his nightmares. All Dean knows is that Cas lost somebody important to him and he blames himself.

“I’m trying,” Dean says back. Because he _wishes_ he knew.

“It isn’t your right to try,” Cas says.

“What the fuck, man? Sure it fucking is,” Dean answers, now angry, his face hot with blood, “You – you know everything about my bullshit. You have your nose asshole-deep in my private business and I never treated you like crap.”

“Well. It isn’t my fault that you decided to divulge that, is it?”

“Wow,” Dean manages, and shoves Cas off of him, onto the floor among dirty clothing and scattered science fiction novels. He stands and yanks a pair of jeans on, screws his boots onto his feet, and says, “You’re a fucking dick.”

“Dean –”

But Dean throws a t-shirt on and slams the bedroom door behind him.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy tiger,” Gabe says when Dean tromps out into the living room, “What the heck? You two were living in wedded bliss and now you’re hair-flipping your way out? What’s going on?”

“Eat shit, Gabe,” is all that Dean says, and yanks the keys to the Impala off of the hook by the door and storms outside.

He doesn’t know where he wants to drive at first. He could drop by the liquor store, but he doesn’t want to have to drink alone. How fucking sad is that? A few months being spoiled with _kissing_ and _trust_ and he doesn’t even know how to handle drinking by himself. That’s what he gets for being so goddamn reliant on somebody.

Dean winds up at a pub, some seedy biker place populated by dudes with impressive beards and a hell of a lot of bandanas. He snags a spot at the bar and orders a beer. The bartender, a guy with an enormous white mustache and a gold nose piercing, complies. Dean downs half of it in one go, and feels decidedly Not Better.

Dean smears a hand over his face. He toys with the idea of texting Sammy, but how lame would that be? Texting his little brother his woes while he drinks his feelings deep down into the dark parts of his gut, where it’s nothing but a dull ache.

“You okay, sugar?”

Dean swivels in surprise, feeling a wave of relief when he sees the offender is Pamela Barnes, leather-clad with ripped up jeans on her long legs.

“Christ, doc. You scared the shit out of me.”

“And you’re worrying me,” she smiles, sipping at the bottle in her fist, “Never seen you drinking in this part of town before. And alone, at that. Where’s your handsome man?”

“Being a dick,” Dean mutters. He finishes off his beer and orders another before he elaborates, “Apparently it’s ‘not his fault’ that I decided to let him in on shit that I don’t let other people in on. Or whatever.”

“Did you leave before he could get a word in?” Pam asks.

Dean glares.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Pam says, “All right. I see you don’t want company, so you drink it out and then you go home and you tell him you’re sorry, okay?”

“Whatever,” Dean says, feeling childish.

Dean drinks his way through three more beers before he moves onto bigger and better things, starting two fingers of cheap whiskey that singes his throat on the way down, smoky and terrible and just what he needed all at once. At last, his brain is beginning to go fuzzy, the hurt at Cas’ words retreating back to be replaced with a floating, pleasant feeling. Drunk, good and drunk.

It’s midnight by the time that it crosses Dean’s mind that he should go back. He’s still furious, but if he doesn’t come back, Cas’ll get worried. And when Cas is worried, he brings down hell before he knows everything will be okay again.

“Whoa, whoa,” he hears, when he slides off of his barstool and crosses worn wood toward the front door of the bar. It’s a manicured female hand stopping him. Pamela again.

“Leave m’alone,” Dean mumbles.

“Sweetheart, you’re too wasted to drive,” she says, “I’ll take you home. Where’s your car?”

Dean swallows the knot in his throat. Does he trust this woman with his baby? Pamela definitely has been up in his business both literally and figuratively.

And she’s not nearly as drunk as he is.

Dean thinks of Bobby’s truck wrapped around a telephone pole, smoking and blood-spattered.

He hands over the keys.

Pamela whistles as they make their way out to the parking lot. She grins, “That is a fine vehicle.”

“I know,” Dean says, “Do not fuck her up.”

Pam just laughs at this. She grabs Dean when he stumbles over an ice patch in the bar’s parking lot, and from there supports him with a surprisingly strong arm around his back. She loads him into the passenger seat of the Impala and buckles him in. She does not acknowledge Dean when he informs her that she looks hot from his angle.

The drive back to Gabriel’s apartment complex proves shorter than expected, even with Dean’s garbled, drunken directions and passes at Pamela the entire ride there.

“You be safe,” she says when they park, and returns the Impala’s keys.

Dean’s just lucid enough to ask, “What ‘bout you?”

“I’ll just walk back, honey,” she replies, “The bar’s only a few blocks from here.”

“Nighttime, though,” he protests. He may be drunk, but he’s not stupid. Pam’s a pretty lady.

“Trust me, I’m a doctor,” Pam says, and winks.

Dean manages a smile.

He takes the elevator up to the third floor of the complex and struggles to get his key in the lock, vision blurred and mind too muddled to make it in until about the sixteenth try. Dean stumbles inside – it’s dark. The TV is off, the lights out, and no one is waiting for him worried on the couch. Maybe Cas went to bed. It would probably be better than way.

Dean tries to be quiet as he navigates the short hallway and steps into the bedroom he shares with Cas, but as soon as he makes it through the door, the covers on the bed shift and Dean sees Cas sit up, sleepy-eyed.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” is all Dean says, tripping out of his boots and jeans to collapse on his side of the bed.

“You smell like a distillery,” Cas says.

“Yup.”

A silence stretches between them before Cas scoots and closes the space between them. He presses his lips to Dean’s forehead and says, “I’m sorry. I should not have said the things that I did to you. I’ll talk to you when I feel ready.”

“Mmkay.”

“Are you okay?” Cas asks.

“Fine.”

“All right,” Cas says tentatively, “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Dean replies, and tries not to think about how nice Cas smells, like shampoo and just barely like sex.

**X**

Dean and Cas do not talk about it.

When Dean wakes up with a hangover, Cas makes him drink water and coffee and take aspirin, and sits with him in bed without speaking. He rubs Dean’s shoulders and the entire time looks as though he has a thousand words on the tip of his tongue.

None of those thousand things are ever said.

After a couple days they kiss again and touch again, but it’s colder and distant and doesn’t make Dean feel the way that he wishes it would make him feel. He doesn’t feel dirty like he did after a round with a john, but it feels empty – which is stupid. Dean has had plenty of empty sex and empty kisses with plenty of people over the course of his sexual history and none of that ever felt wrong. But with Cas, the emptiness is just…off. Unsettling. Uncool.

So Dean throws himself into his routine. He goes to work and makes latte art and bakes pies, and deposits his paychecks in the bank account Gabriel insisted he get before he hired Dean. He likes watching the number in his savings account grow, and thinks about how he’ll spend it on firefighter training.

They still run together in the evenings. It gets easier as Dean and Cas continue on. Though they’re still not-quite-right with each other, they don’t have to speak on their jogs. Dean brings his old portable cassette player and sticks his headphones in his ears, motivating himself with Metallica and AC/DC and Kansas.

On March third, Dean forgets to change the batteries in his cassette player and has to keep it tucked in the pocket of his basketball shorts as he and Cas run. They decided to go out a little earlier than usual since Dean had the early shift – it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, and though the sun is out there’s a little winter chill leftover, keeping the worst of the sweat at bay.

There are more people out than either Dean and Cas are used to. Dean feels Cas’ discomfort as they make their first lap around the park and pass by the playground. A little boy with carrot-red hair tugs at the edge of his mom’s coat and points to Cas. Dean knows that Cas sees it.

When they round back into a neighborhood, there are some guys sitting out on their driveway, sharing some beers while Dean and Cas punch through the aroma barbeque surrounding the home. It’s a decent day, Dean thinks. Good for running. Things look like they’re kind of getting greener. Spring is on the way, and soon it’ll be Sammy’s twentieth birthday. Dean wonders if he should just send Sam something or if Sam’ll want to visit, or something. Dean doesn’t know if he would be ready to return to Sioux Falls, even if that’s what Sam wanted.

The sound of a badly-tended car turning into the neighborhood sounds, the poor thing coughing and sputtering as she makes her way up the hill as Cas and Dean work their way down it.

And then she backfires. A loud _BANG_ explodes into the air, and Dean’s about to yell at them for their shitty-ass combustion before he notices that Cas is no longer standing next to him. Dean stops in his tracks and turns around to jog back to where Cas is stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Cas, dude, what’s the big idea?” Dean asks.

Castiel doesn’t answer him. His eyes look straight ahead at what should be Dean, but it seems as though he’s staring right through him. Dean’s not there, just a phantom. And that’s just it – the only way to describe the astonished look on Cas’ face is _haunted._

He looks terrified.

“Cas?” Dean tries again, and lays his palm on Cas’ forearm.

Cas jerks to life.

“Dean!” he exclaims, horror draining his face of blood, “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous! You’ll get hurt. You’re a _civilian._ ”

“What are you talking about, man?”

One of the guys drinking beer at the barbeque up the street chucks his empty bottle with a laugh, and the glass shatters against the sidewalk.

Castiel tackles Dean to ground and shouts, “Get down! You – we need to get you back to base, Dean. You’ll be safer there. Not here.”

Oh.

Oh, Christ.

Cas thinks they’re in Paktika. In Afghanistan.

 


	12. Nearly Reach the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, this is a Castiel chapter, so PTSD ahead. I did my best to research everything I could but if I have something that's inaccurate please let me know. This applies to not only this chapter but the whole fic -- I noticed some of you have been quiet. If I get something wrong, please tell me! You can leave a comment or message me at scarlettshazam.tumblr.

**Chapter Track: I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles – Vera Lynn**

**_Nearly Reach the Sky_ **

He needs to get Dean to safety. It occurs to Castiel that he does not know why Dean is here, but he needs to make sure he’s safe. He can’t allow what happened to happen again.

Cas didn’t think it would be like this. He’s a translator.

But now the bullets are flying. They have contraband weapons and homemade bombs. The haggard, tortured eyes of the suicide bomber will forever haunt him, even now, as the cogs in Cas’ mind leap into action and he jumps to escort Dean to the nearest shelter. Base would be best but it’s too far, and Cas’ transport is on its side and on fire.

“Cas,” Dean protests, when Cas drags him to his feet and shields Dean’s body with his own. He’s got his body armor and Dean’s in nothing but – for Heaven’s sake – a t-shirt and basketball shorts, as though Paktika is little more than a community gym. Cas has never known Dean to be impractical, but dangerous zones change men. Once, it could have been said that Cas had his head in the clouds. No one would say that anymore, he knows.

“Castiel!” Dean exclaims, and tears out of Cas’ grip. His voice seems fuzzy and distant, almost-dreamlike. Must be an offshoot of the blast.

“Cas, listen to me,” Dean says, each word enunciated as though Castiel is a toddler and incapable of understanding simple concepts, “We are not overseas. We are at home in Lawrence. C’mon, buddy, stay with me. Um. See, look, this house has a Denver Broncos gnome – traitors – outside of it. See?”

Cas whirls his head to where Dean’s hand points, and he follows it.

There is a gnome.

What in heaven’s name is happening to him?

“And, uh. Look, down there. There are some kids dicking around in the puddles. Bet their mom fuckin’ loves that,” Dean says.

Again, Cas looks to where Dean points, and sees two children, each brown-skinned and bundled up in winter wear, expressions of glee gracing their faces as they splash.

Splash, splash, splash.

What the fuck do they have to splash in? This godforsaken place is nothing but sand. But there are puddles, and there’s concrete, and the Denver Broncos garden gnome.

Dean rubs Cas’ arm and then runs his hand down. He reaches into Cas’ pocket – his blue pocket. Why is his pocket blue? Wait. He’s wearing shorts, like Dean. That is highly impractical at a time like this. Does Dean not understand the urgency – but the kids. Puddles. Gnome.

“Why is your hand in my pocket?” Cas asks, more confused than ever. His head hurts. It hurts a lot. His leg feels strange. Everything feels strange, like he’s been sucked through a black hole into a scene from Beetlejuice.

Dean rubs Cas’ arm again and says, “Just listen. I’m gonna play one of your favorite songs, okay?”

It’s a phone. Dean took Castiel’s phone out of his pocket. A smartphone. He didn’t have one of those until he arrived home from – oh. Oh, this is very odd. Cas sways, but Dean holds him steady and grinds out, “Easy there, angel.”

Music pours out of his phone. It’s Vera Lynn. She has such a lovely voice, and her words make Cas feel better even if he doesn’t always believe them. Dean is playing Castiel’s absolute favorite track of hers, _I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles_. Sometimes when he was young, Anna would sing him to sleep with the ballad. She told Cas that their mom used to sing it to them when she was alive. As a child he didn’t understand the weight of the words, but this song evolved from lullaby to his life.

“ _Then like my dreams, they fade and die…_ ”

Castiel realized the truth of that sentiment the moment that his father dealt him an ultimatum: Enlist as most of his brothers had, or suffer instant disownment, as Gabriel had. At eighteen the idea of losing his family was terrifying, even if having his family was equally as terrifying. He’d been raised to feel ashamed, ashamed that he was so proud of his English papers, and how his teachers told him he could pursue a real career. He could write. He could excel. It sounded wonderful, but he told them no, he would join the military. It was tradition, and Castiel adhered to tradition. He was obedient.

Sometimes army life had been hard, but not unbearable. Even deployment to the Middle East was tolerable. Very little occurred until –

Until the suicide bomber.

Castiel looks up sharply and breathes hard, but the crest of the music brings him back.

“ _And as the daylight is dawning…they come again in the morning…”_

“Cas?” Dean says, “You with me?”

Cas shakes. All at once, the cool March air assaults him. The air smells like suburban tarmac and the wet aftershock of melting snow, and each intertwine with the aroma of his sweat, and Dean’s sweat. They were on a jog. Oh.

Cas licks his lips. At last he says, “Please take me home.”

Dean nods. He coils an arm of support just underneath Cas’ shoulders and walks along with him. From Castiel’s phone in Dean’s grip, the song fades to a close, but Dean’s thumb flicks across the screen lightning-quick, and it begins over again.

Vera Lynn sings _I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles_ several times before Dean guides Castiel into the elevator of their apartment complex. Cas can feel his legs shake underneath him, but a steady palm on his back keeps him in place. Even if his knees buckled, Dean would hold him.

Inside the apartment, Dean steers Castiel to the living room couch, where he kneels in front of him and assists in removing Cas’ prosthetic. Yes. Fake, fake leg. It’s healed. It’s over. This is Kansas. They are in the United States of America. It is March, and Dean thinks the people with a Denver Broncos garden gnome are traitors.

But no matter how much assures himself of this fact, the fear still keeps his spine stiff and fingers quaking. Dean unfolds the fleece blanket from its place on the left armrest and drapes it across Cas’ shoulders. He bites his lip as he does, unsure, brows knit.

The next minutes pass in some combination of painful slowness and too-quick leaps from place to place. Vera Lynn goes from tinny song from the speaker on the back of Cas’ phone to filtering out of Gabriel’s intricate sound system, surrounding Cas with her warm voice and familiar words. A cup of tea presses into his hands. Dean sits in front of him, on the coffee table.

“Gabriel would murder you if he saw you doing that,” Cas remarks.

For whatever reason, this makes Dean’s lungs deflate with clear relief, and he replies, “Christ, Cas. You scared the shit out of me. Are you – um. You gonna be okay?”

Cas shakes his head and sips at the tea. Dean over-brewed it, leaving it too bitter.

“I don’t know,” Cas says, “I don’t know what happened. That – hasn’t happened since I left care at the hospital.”

“Gabe said it was a flashback,” Dean says slowly. He seems afraid of how this information may affect Cas.

Cas just asks, “When did you speak to Gabriel?”

“A while ago, dude,” Dean says, “You were really fuckin’ out of it. I called him, ‘cause I was – uh, I dunno. I didn’t know what to do. He’s gonna be home soon. Charlie’s taking a double for him.”

Cas covers his face with his hands and sighs. Again, he has people fawn over him because he has failed to handle himself like a regular, functioning human being. For some time Dean seemed a balm to all the awful things – but then the nightmares returned, and now this.

Castiel laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

“Dude, what the hell is so damn funny?” Dean snaps.

“I’m so _fucking_ humiliated,” Cas laughs. If he doesn’t laugh, he’ll cry. He cannot decide which he would like to do less, so he continues to laugh.

Except that one bitter chuckle catches in his throat, snaps like a dry twig, and it all goes to hell. His shoulders slump and his eyes boil over. He doesn’t make noise after that, just lets silent tears fall. He hates crying. Father always admonished them for displays of emotion, and though Castiel seldom feels obligation to his father anymore, he can’t help the guilt and shame that creep up from his gut to his throat, like spiders crawling over his skin and through his hair.

This is how Gabriel finds him, shattered and crying on the couch like the weak disaster of a person that he is.

Gabe doesn’t scold Dean for sitting on the coffee table. He just takes the cushion beside Cas and asks, “You need anything, kiddo?”

Cas is so bone-tired that he doesn’t have the energy to tell Gabriel not to call him ‘kiddo.’

Gabriel only squeezes Cas’ shoulder after that and announces that he’s making burgers. They’re both Cas and Dean’s favorite meal, though Cas doesn’t know that he could stomach food even if he wanted to. When he expresses this sentiment, Gabriel warns, “I will sit in front of you and play ‘here comes the airplane’ if I have to, Castiel. Do not make me.”

So Cas eats, though he takes small bites and has to force the food down, and washes the food down with whiskey instead of water.

After, Dean helps walk him to the bathroom, though Cas opts to shower alone. There in his chair, he lets the warm water soak his skin and run down over his arms and between his legs. His lashes stick together and suds run into his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He never wants to leave this stream of water. Here, at least, he knows he’s lucid. The sensation of water striking his scars, the sting in his eyes, the pungent smell of his farmer’s market soap – it keeps him grounded.

Only when a knock sounds at the door does Cas jerk from his thoughts.

“Cas?” Dean calls, “You’ve been in there for an hour, angel. You ready to come out?”

Cas wonders when Dean began calling him ‘angel,’ and decides that however inaccurate, he likes the sound of the name on Dean’s tongue.

“Yes,” Cas says, and leaves it at that. He stretches over and shuts off the water, and lifts himself out of the tub. If nothing else can be said of his lack of a right leg, it’s that it’s taught him to make up for the absence with strength in his arms. He dries himself off and dresses in the clothes that Dean laid out for him.

It’s strange. Sometimes in his clothes the scent of Dean mingles with Cas’ own familiar smell. Most nights the aroma comforts him, and he thinks of green eyes and freckles and a throaty laugh. Tonight, he slips the soft cotton over his head and feels ashamed that Dean witnessed what he did.

When Cas opens the bathroom door, Dean offers his arm.

He refuses. He does have a smidgeon of pride left, thank you very much, however small it may be. Cas leverages his weight against the wall and maneuvers the few feet into the bedroom. Dean licks his lips and frowns, looking like he wants to speak.

But Dean does not speak, and Cas is grateful.

**X**

Castiel wakes early as he does typically, but instead of rolling out of bed to attach his prosthetic and start a pot of coffee, he flips to his other side and closes his eyes his eyes again. He feels Dean shift on the mattress beside him, but neither of them says a word. He woke Dean last night again, screaming awake from another nightmare. This one was so vivid he believed it real for several minutes before Dean brought him down, sleepily running his hand over Cas’ tensed muscles and murmuring that Beatles song under his breath. Dean knows every word to Hey Jude.

When Cas opens his eyes for the second time, his head feels heavy from too much sleep, and his back aches from tossing and turning on the mattress. The bed feels cold, and when he rotates to look at Dean, he isn’t there.

It’s ten o’clock in the morning. It figures that Dean wouldn’t be here. He probably has work.

He takes his time readying himself for the day, collecting his leg from the place on the wall and sliding it into place, standing until the joint clicks correctly. He dresses comfortably in loose, worn jeans that once belonged to Gabriel, and a long-sleeved shirt. With striped socks and a hooded sweatshirt over it all, he feels safer, covered.

When he walks out into the apartment, Gabriel and Dean are both in the common area – Gabriel with his feet kicked up on the kitchen table and Macbook open on his legs, typing swiftly, and Dean on the couch with another Ray Bradbury book a few inches from his face. Their heads turn when Cas approaches, so rapid it seems they were waiting for him.

“Do you not have work?” he asks, a general question, because both Gabriel and Dean should logically be at Trickster by this hour.

“We got our shifts covered,” Dean says, “How’re you feeling, buddy?”

Cas rubs a hand back through his uncombed hair and releases all the air out of his lungs. Then he says, “I think I need to go to Topeka.”

“What?” Dean says, and shuts his book, “What the hell is in Topeka?”

“The nearest place I can get VA services,” Castiel clarifies, “I believe I should visit with them. At least – to test the waters. You both are suffering because of me and I dislike it.”

“We’re not –” Gabriel starts.

Castiel holds up a hand, “Do not start with me. I know it isn’t easy to have to…to babysit me at all hours of the day. I’d like to seek advice at least. I will, however, need a ride, as I cannot drive myself.”

“I can give you a lift,” Dean offers, “Could dick around in Topeka while you do your thing and then you could call me when you’re done?”

“…Today?” Cas asks, and cocks his head.

“Yeah, dude,” Dean says, “You want this done, let’s get her done.”

Castiel was unprepared for this, but he supposes it’s for the best. He brews a pot of coffee and enjoys the sweet, dark brew with an accompanying breakfast courtesy of Dean: eggs sunny side up, crisp bacon, and naturally, hash browns. It’s a little elaborate, but Castiel supposes that after yesterday that Dean feels obligated to do what he can to help him. Dean generally helps people in quieter ways, like cooking or flirting or smiles.

Except when Cas has nightmares. They’re both bare when that happens, stripped of the pretense that plagues them both when they’re coherent enough to remember boundaries.

The journey to Topeka is not far, only a little over a half hour with traffic. Dean lets Castiel choose the music even though he tends to insist that the driver always selects the songs. To spare Dean any grief, he chooses to play a Led Zeppelin cassette. Cas watches Kansas pass by through the Impala’s window, pristinely clean, as Dean always keeps her. He keeps his knees up to his chin and sips at the coffee that he prepared in a travel mug. He added too much sugar, but the caffeine keeps him alert, which he needs.

He has his paperwork tucked into a manila folder, which is on the floor below his chair. He catalogued all the things that the Topeka VA website instructed him to have. It said that he could bring them directly to the clinic. He’s not sure if there’s a waiting period, but he hopes not. He should speak to someone before he decides to dismiss the idea entirely, which he is extremely tempted to do.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean softly calls, “We’re here.”

Oh.

Castiel hadn’t even noticed that the Impala was stopped. He plucks the manila folder on the car floor up with shaking hands and slides his feet back down off of the seat. This is much scarier than he imagined it being.

“Dude,” Dean says, and brings a hand to Castiel’s shoulder. He squeezes, and then leans over to press a short kiss to Cas’ lips.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and slips out of the car. He stands in front of the building for several tense seconds before he grits his teeth and steps in.

“Castiel?”

This, he did not expect.

It’s Garth, from Cloud Nine, dressed casually in plaid and denim and smiling. Cas clutches his manila folder to his chest and manages a choked, “Hello.”

“You all right?”

“No,” Cas says, “I brought paperwork for…I’m…having issues with –” Damn it, these words should not be so difficult to get out. Garth is kind. He knows that.

Sympathy floods Garth’s face, and he nods, “I get it. I go to group every two weeks still, and I’ve been doin’ this for like four years, about. Hey, I can take you where you need to go, if you want. They know me around here.”

“Oh,” Cas says, “Um, thank you. I need…Post Traumatic Stress Disorder assistance? I think. According to the pamphlet on the website I have nearly every symptom.”

The pity that Castiel fears never inches onto Garth’s face. He simply nods again and jerks his head behind him, “Totally, man. It’s this way.”

In the elevator, Castiel bursts, “I only have one leg.”

Garth replies, “I know. ‘Sit bug you?”

“Sometimes,” Cas admits, “Not as much as it did.” Physically and mentally, he thinks. If he wears it too long then he’s sore and irritable, but it’s not nearly as awful as it was in the beginning, when he walked like a just-born gazelle regardless of how hard he tried to walk steadily.

And mentally – well. It’s ugly, he tends to believe, but not as adamantly as he once might have. The image of Dean pressing his lips to the scar tissue surfaces in his mind sometimes now, how he looked up at Castiel through long lashes and how Castiel knew in that moment that he was falling, doomed to tenderness for a man he’s known not even a year.

Garth leads him to a reception counter, where a slight, young Asian man types on his computer. When Garth leans over and greets, “Heya, Kevin,” he looks up, and a wide smile splits his face.

“Garth,” he says, “Long time, no see. How you doing?”

“Better,” Garth says, “Look, I need a favor.”

“Oh, boy,” Kevin sighs, and rolls his eyes.

“It’s not bad. This is my friend Castiel, from Lawrence. He buys his books from me,” Garth sticks his thumb at Cas, who shrinks back a little and tries to make himself look smaller, “His paperwork’s not in yet, but he’s got it here and…I know you can fudge the computers and get him in early. Give me your papers, Cas.”

Castiel hands them over, and Garth passes them down to Kevin. He murmurs something too quiet for Cas to hear, and Kevin opens the manila folder, flipping through the sheets that Cas filled out at the kitchen table with Dean and Gabriel after breakfast.

“Dude, you’ve got two Purple Hearts?” Kevin shifts his gaze to Castiel.

“Um,” Cas says, “Yes.”

He feels guilty about throwing them that night Dean found them. He was angry, but they’re important, even if he doesn’t deserve either of them. He’d picked up the cases and stacked them neatly back in their shoebox in the closet, and felt stupid and awful all night, even more so when Dean returned home with liquor on his breath.

“Yeah, all right,” Kevin says, “Shurley’s got an opening in twenty. You okay with waiting for a little?”

Cas nods. Twenty minutes. He can muddle through twenty minutes without running in the opposite direction.

“You want me to hang while you wait?” asks Garth. It’s thoughtful.

“I think I can manage,” Castiel says, and hopes that it’s true.

His hands shake while he waits, which makes it impossible to read the magazine filling him in on the birth of the new English prince. Kate Middleton looks like she never gave birth, and recalls Dean saying something along the lines of “that’s some Hogwarts shit right there” while he pretended not to browse tabloids at checkout during a grocery shopping excursion.

Already this feels like a bad idea. He should not have come here. He can work through this, by himself, in the comfort of his own home. He doesn’t need anybody else.

A smartly-dressed woman walks by. She has a prosthetic leg too, though hers is below the knee. That must be nice.

“Shurley’s ready for you, man,” Kevin says and points over to the door that the well-dressed woman emerged from, “Third door on your left.”

Cas replaces the trashy magazine where he pulled it from and walks stiffly back toward the offices.

There is a man in the one that he walks into.

“Oh, uh,” Cas stammers, “I must be in the wrong – Kevin tells me I am speaking to a Shirley.”

“You got him,” the man smiles, “Chuck Shurley. You can call me Chuck. And you’re Castiel Novak. Pop a squat, man.”

Castiel closes the office door and obeys. He feels strangely comforted by Chuck Shurley’s casual attitude. His office is disorganized, but it’s well-lit and open, and there is an array of mostly-dead house plants stacked on the shelves behind Chuck’s head between colorful books. Lots of books. That’s good. Books are a source of comfort, too.

“I didn’t have much time to look through your history, but it seems like you’ve been through a lot,” Chuck says, “Took a while for you to come to us, looks like.”

“Yes…I,” Castiel sighs, “I believed things were getting better.”

“Why’s that?”

“I met somebody,” Cas admits, “but then the nightmares returned and yesterday I had the worst flashback since I was still in physical therapy,” he takes a deep breath, “and I wanted to come here before I could talk myself out of it, which I am doing right now.”

“Hmm,” Chuck hums, “Who’d you meet?”

“Um…well, it’s a long story, but his name is Dean,” Cas says, heat staining his cheeks, “He works for my brother and he wants to be a firefighter.” He used to be a prostitute. He makes wonderful pie. He once drew a very ugly but identifiable Enterprise on the top of Castiel’s latte in chocolate sauce. He hums Hey Jude to soothe Castiel after a nightmare. He doesn’t think that the stump of Castiel’s leg is ugly.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” Chuck says, “He like you back?”

“Oh, yes,” Cas says, and realizes that he believes that whole-heartedly. Dean is his friend, one hundred percent.

“So, because of Dean, you thought things were getting better,” Chuck says.

“Well, he…he slept on Gabriel’s couch for some time, and when he started sleeping in my bed he…I don’t know. I didn’t have nightmares for a while, and then they started happening again,” Castiel shrugs, and avoids looking Chuck Shurley in the eye.

“And Gabriel? That’s your brother?” Chuck guesses.

Cas nods, “He and my sister Anna and I are estranged from our family. He took me in after I completed physical therapy.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you are estranged from your family?” asks Chuck.

“Well. I came out as homosexual and they disowned me,” Cas says, “Gabriel refused to enlist, which is family tradition, and Anna got a divorce. My family is very strict.”

After this admission, Castiel spills out many more confessions. He talks about his nieces and how they spent Christmastime, he discusses Dean’s recent rise in self-worth and how much he hopes that Dean decides to go to school like he wants to, he talks about how Dean loves Vonnegut and Bradbury and how he secretly loves when they argue about their favorites, he talks about Gabriel’s customers and how much they love him for the things that annoy Castiel. The only things that he does not reveal are Dean’s history, because he wouldn’t do that without permission, and Samandriel. He does not know if he ever cares to talk about Samandriel.

At the end of the session Chuck is still smiling and listening. He says, “So, here’s the deal. I want to meet with you once a week, and we’ll start working on some CPT and EMDR. I’ve got all the info here for you. I don’t think we want to use prolonged exposure for you, but it’s in there in case you think it might help. I also want you to set up an appointment with our psychiatrist. Kevin’ll help you with that.”

“Medication?” Cas says, unsure.

“It might be best,” Chuck nods, “But Crowley’ll determine that. He’s a bit loopy but he’s a decent man.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says when he stands. He means it. He likes Chuck Shurley, and he doesn’t feel like speaking to him is forced and uncomfortable. It feels appropriate, and though he didn’t discuss much of his time in the service, he feels lighter. He makes an appointment with Crowley the psychiatrist for a few days following at Kevin’s desk, and returns to the first level of the clinic.

He calls Dean as soon as he exits the clinic, and Dean promises to be there soon. He arrives five minutes later and Castiel climbs into the passenger seat of the Impala, much less tense than he was when he arrived. Dean leans over and squeezes Cas’ shoulder.

“So, uh. How’d it go?”

“Well,” Castiel replies. It’s all that he needs to say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CPT -- cognitive processing therapy
> 
> EMDR -- eye movement desensitization and reprocessing


	13. Will You Love Me If You're Able?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow lots of things to say here so bear with me
> 
> BIG GIANT TRIGGER WARNING for graphic recollections of a rape
> 
> Also warnings for alcohol as a coping mechanism and brief thoughts of Alastair
> 
> This chapter is actually mostly sex but I promise there is plot in here
> 
> Also also, the artist of this chapter's track is really good and I highly recommend giving some of his stuff a listen. On SoundCloud there is a song of his called Soldier Unplugged Version and it is this fic's Castiel like whoa.
> 
> And thank you all for your continued support. It really does mean a lot. Fic keeps me sane these days.
> 
> Happy reading!

**Chapter Track: Pass Me A Smoke – Strangejuice**

**_Will You Love Me If You’re Able?_ **

Dean hasn’t known the pleasures of morning sex since Lisa in high school, when he would sneak her into Bobby’s through the back door after midnight, and they’d fuck and laugh and talk about nothing until they both fell asleep. They’d creep into the basement and lay out a nest of blankets and pillows, and set Bobby's dusty old radio alarm clock to wake them early in the morning, before Bobby and Sam, and they’d have sex just as the sun rose up over the crests of the roofs of Bobby’s neighborhood. They’d hush each other and laugh softly, and Dean always made sure Lisa came before him, and then he always walked her down the block where she’d park her little Ford, just to be safe.

A weight wakes Dean, solid and masculine, at six in the morning on Saturday. Typically he smacks Cas away when he rouses him too early, but Cas isn’t dreaming. He’s kissing Dean’s neck, and his hand is halfway down Dean’s boxers, wrapped around the most monstrous case of morning wood Dean can recall having in recent memory.

“Good morning to you too,” Dean murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and Cas lets out a deep chuckle against the skin of his throat.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean gasps, when Cas flicks his wrist just the right way, and then, “You’re in a mood.”

“I want you naked,” Cas says to this, “Now.” He divests Dean of his t-shirt and boxer briefs and dives in to kiss along Dean’s chest, pressing lips to smooth skin and scars, and the center of Dean’s tattoo.

“Hey, man, I refuse to be naked alone,” Dean protests.

Castiel shifts off of Dean and strips his shirt off. Fuck, those arms – Dean can’t get enough of Cas’ arms. Soldier’s arms. He watches as Cas slips a hand underneath the waistband of his woefully boring boxers (dark blue, practical and too loose) and closes his fist around his own cock.

Dean moans at that, muffling the sound against his forearm before he realizes that Gabe should already be hard at work at Trickster.

“I have no idea who you are or what you’ve done with Cas,” Dean breathes, “But it is fuckin’ _sexy_.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas says, and leans over to kiss him. Cas plies Dean’s mouth open with his tongue, hot and eager, kissing hard before he tears his mouth away. He presses hot trails of kisses over Dean’s unshaven jaw and down his neck, over his collarbone – oh, Christ – he latches his mouth around one nipple and makes it hard, ghosting a breath across the tender pink skin when he pulls off.

Cas slides his own underwear down and kicks them off of his leg. Damn, does that morning light do something nice to him. He’s pale-skinned and scarred in so many places, but Dean is way into it, just like he’s into Cas’ strong shoulders and thickly muscled arms and serious face and blue-as-fuck eyes. Cas’ cock is flushed and hard. Dean’s mouth waters a little at sight of it all. Christ, this dude.

Before Dean can make a move, Cas manhandles him, gripping each of Dean’s arms in his hands and dragging him further down the mattress. In one sloppy, tangled-in-the-sheets move, Cas head in between Dean’s legs. He applies heated kisses to the insides of Dean’s thighs and palming at his balls.

“Holy shit,” Dean manages, “Cas, let me –”

Cas looks up sharply and says, “No. It’s your turn to let _me_.”

Castiel’s stubble scrapes against the length of Dean’s cock, only for a moment, before he stretches his mouth over the tip and swallows Dean down.

Dean swears. He tries to keep still but he thrusts his hips up, unable to help it. Cas seems surprised when Dean’s dick hits the back of his throat, but he takes it in stride.

Then he pulls off. A disappointed noise tears out of Dean.

Cas settles his hands on either side of Deans waist and lifts him effortlessly, pulling Dean into the position he wants like he’s molding clay. Cas is underneath him now on his back, Dean’s legs spread over on either side of his head. Castiel reaches up and places each palm on either side of Dean’s ass.

“I want you to fuck my mouth,” he says.

Dean groans. Cas’ face and chest are red with arousal, and a sheen of sweat glints at his forehead in the early sunlight. God, he looks like an erotic dream from Dean’s teenage years, pupils wide and lips kiss-wet and swollen. Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus _goddamn_ fucking Christ.

What else is there to do but listen?

Castiel tilts up his chin and opens his mouth wide. When Dean settles his hand in Cas’ hair and tugs, Cas moans. That’s all Dean needs. With his free hand, he takes his dick at the base and pushes it past Cas’ lips. He slides into place, and fuck him, Cas’ mouth is so hot and wet it’s a miracle that he doesn’t come right then and there.

With insistent hands Cas forces Dean forward, all the way, down into his throat.

Dean starts with long, slow thrusts, gripping Cas’ hair tight and pulling him to meet each roll of his hips. Castiel’s clipped fingernails dig into the flesh of Dean’s ass, sending little sparks of perfect pain up his spine. He smirks down, and then works his hips faster, head lolling back as he moans and grunts and chants Cas’ name over and over and over.

“Gonna come, angel,” he groans, but when he tries to pull away, Cas jerks him forward. Dean spills into Castiel’s throat with a shout, a wrecked cry of, “ _Shit_ , Cas,” as he releases Cas’ hair and falls forward onto his hands, body limp and used.

For several seconds, Castiel holds Dean in his mouth and lets him breathe out the tail of his orgasm. When Dean’s cock slips from his mouth, he kisses the tops and insides of Dean’s thighs and the concave of his belly.

Dean strokes a hand over the top of Cas’ head and asks, “What do you want?” His voice is raw from shouting, but the question is familiar. It’s a question formerly reserved for johns.

“Give me what you want to give,” Cas says, and that is something that a john has never said.

Fuck, he should not be thinking of Cas like he would think about a john. Cas isn’t a fucking john, he’s…different. He’s important. Dean does not have the brain capacity at the moment to consider why exactly that is, just that it’s true.

When Cas rubs his hand through Dean’s hair, Dean makes a soft noise and shifts. He pulls Cas so he sits on the edge of the mattress, and Dean sinks down to his knees on the carpet. He kisses Cas’ scars and the inside of his thighs, sucking and licking at the soft skin of Cas’ thighs, teasing. Cas’ legs tremble and his breath comes quick and hard.

“Please,” Cas says, and who is Dean to deny him?

Dean takes Cas’ cock into his mouth, holding his hips steady so that he can’t jerk into Dean’s throat. He trembles under Dean’s hands and recites gasping chants (“Dean, Dean, Dean” or “Oh, oh” or “Please, please, please”). Dean takes it slow and hums around him. He strokes his fingers over the skin over Castiel’s hipbones, even as Cas tugs and yanks up at his hair, demanding more without saying anything at all.

He comes without warning, onto Dean’s tongue.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” Cas cries.

Dean swallows and laughs at his Cas’ horrified face. He surges up and straddles Castiel’s lap, kissing him hard, letting him taste the lingering flavor of his come on Dean’s tongue.

“C’mon, dude, let’s go back to bed,” Dean says, “Isn’t even fuckin’ seven yet.”

And if they fall back asleep sweaty and tangled up and kissing the breath out of each other, well, that’s just peachy.

**X**

Dean slips out for his shift at Trickster before Cas revives, leaving a sticky note pasted to the center of his forehead on which he scrawled _do not drink last beer or run w/o me_ , because last time Dean had an awkward shift beginning at ten thirty in the morning and ending slightly too-late in the evening, Cas went on their routine exercise without him and Dean had to go by himself. He thought he’d like it – some Zeppelin, cool air and solitude – but it wasn’t as fun without Cas to fuck around with, to try and outrun, or to get into a shoving match with until one of them bruises themselves landing too hard.

When he arrives at work, Gabriel’s brows sail high up on his forehead and he whistles, “Hope whatever you two did, it wasn’t on the couch.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean shoots back, and slips his apron over his head as soon as he’s clocked in for the day. He doesn’t know if his face is just that fucking open and readable, or if Gabriel just knows more than he should.

Dean likes working at Trickster well enough, but it’s not the kind of work he’d truly like to do. He likes the chaos, and he likes that it keeps him on his toes, and boy, does he like his tips, but it doesn’t provide the right kind of chaos. And he doesn’t rescue anybody by drawing an alien in their latte foam, though he’d like to think he can at least tease out some smiles.

On his lunch break he decides to nut up and call Sam, tell him he’s thinking about school which would be mean less money send to Sam for school and…aw, shit, Dean feels like a shithead already, but Sam’s phone is already ringing.

“What’s up?” Sam answers, tone light.

Dean smears a hand over his face, “Uh. I was gonna call you and tell you I might not be able to send as much –”

“Dean, if you quit your job at Gabe’s place I’m gonna –”

“Goddamnit, Sammy, no. I just want to go to school,” Dean snaps, and once the words are out, they’re out.

“Wait. What?”

“I mean, it’s like. A training program. For firefighters. And stuff. I was looking at the shit they have at KU and it’ll cost me so I just…”

“That’s great!” Sam exclaims, and Dean hears the muffled sounds of movement and the faint declaration of, “Jess, Dean’s gonna go to school!”

Dean's eyes roll so hard that he swears he can see the back of his skull. He says, “Dude, I didn’t say I was gonna go for sure. I just said I was thinkin’ about it.”

“For you, that’s already a decision,” Sam says, “Haven’t you wanted to do fire and rescue stuff since –”

“Since I was four, Sammy,” Dean gruffly cuts him off, “Since I was four.”

“Oh,” Sam manages at that, and gets quieter. He mulls this information over, and after a stretch of quiet between the two of them, Sam says, “For what it’s worth, I bet mom would be proud of you.”

“You don’t remember mom,” Dean replies.

“Maybe not, but I know what kind of person she was,” Sam defends, “You told me all kinds of stories and dad loved her so much and you said dad was happy with her…I just figured if all that stuff was true that – you know, she’d be proud.”

Dean’s heart feels like a stone inside his chest, sinking down deep into the acid of his stomach, settling where it burns most. He lets out a huff of air and gropes around in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. When he clicks a flame to life on his lighter, Sam asks, “Are you smoking? You know you shouldn’t, right?”

“Sam,” Dean warns.

“Sorry,” he says, “But I mean it. About mom.”

“I know,” Dean says, “Look, my break’s almost up,” – a total lie – “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay,” Sam says, and just as Dean makes to hang up he says, “Wait, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” Sam says. The way he speaks it with such quiet conviction reminds Dean of when they were kids, when Sam was _so sure_ about everything. Sam’s hard faith died a little as he grew older. He knows the weight of what he says.

Dean knows he should thank his brother, but he can only manage, “Yeah.” He hangs up first.

The worst part about it all is that Dean knows Sam is right. Mom _would_ be proud of him. She’d probably hug him. Probably laugh. But he can’t know any of that for sure, because mom’s dead and she won’t tell Dean she’s proud of him, and she will not hug him, and she will not home. Dean doesn’t know if it would suck more or less if Sam told him how disappointed mom would be in him.

Sam’s said that to him before, anyway.

When Dean finishes his cigarette, he no longer has an appetite, so he cuts his lunch short and slogs back to work.

Gabriel accuses, “What the hell? You look like somebody just ran over your beloved cat.”

“Hey, Gabe?”

“Yes, Dean-o?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says.

“Complaint duly noted,” Gabriel said, “Aaand…overruled. What’s got your goat, dude?”

“To be fucking honest, _dude_ , it’s not up for debate,” Dean says.

“Hmph,” Gabriel simplifies, “Fine, fine. If you don’t want to talk to me, consider talking to Cassie, will you?”

“I’ll think about it,” Dean answers.

He does think about it, but recalls Cas’ outburst, how he told Dean that it _wasn’t his fault Dean divulged too much information_ or whatever the fuck he said, and his mood only darkens. He tries not to let it shine through for the sake of the customers, but knows Gabe knows, and that makes it twenty times worse.

When Dean’s shift is just about up and he’s hanging his apron on the pegs in the backroom, Gabriel cough and says, “Hey.”

“What?” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“Chill out, girl scout,” Gabe says, and holds up his hands, “Can you tell my brother I’m probably gonna be at Kali’s tonight?”

“I thought you two broke it off,” Dean says, and cocks a brow.

Gabriel shrugs, “Yeah, we ‘break it off’ a lot. What can I say? I’m a fickle beast.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, prince charming,” Dean says, “I’ll let him know.”

On the drive back to the apartment, Dean picks up a bottle of moderately priced whiskey at the liquor store, where Benny is behind the counter with a music magazine in his clutches. He smiles when Dean sets the bottle in front of the register and remarks, “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while.” Dean purposely avoids times that Benny works, because Benny likes him and Dean does not like when people like him. He must be covering some other sap’s shift now.

“Yeah, been cutting down,” Dean says, which is also true.

“That’s cool. Heard you work at Gabe’s place now,” Benny says.

Dean bristles, wondering where Benny gets his information and how the hell he knows Gabe, before he realizes that the liquor store sits nestled conveniently between Trickster and the apartment, and it’s likely Gabriel’s haunt as far as alcohol goes, too.

“Gabriel talks too much,” Dean says.

Benny lets out a soft, musical laugh, “I’ll say, brother. Hey, you take it easy, okay? Don’t drink that shit all in one sitting.”

One corner of Dean’s mouth lifts and he says, “All right, man. Have a good night.”

As soon as Dean reaches the apartment, he sets the whiskey on the kitchen counter. Cas can sense that Dean’s in a mood, but he doesn’t comment on it, just rubs a hand over Dean’s back while he laces his running shoes onto his feet and relays the news that Gabe will not be joining them tonight or cooking dinner.

The run today makes him feel better. He sweats out all the bullshit emotion, and with each beat of his shoes against pavement, he imagines himself pushing further and further away from the blurry memories that he has of his mom. It helps to concentrate on keeping up with Cas, who, peg-legged-ness aside, is much quicker than Dean is. The burn in his limbs keeps his thoughts chained tightly to the present. Thank Christ for that.

When they make it back home, they shower separately, Cas first, while Dean pours a finger of whiskey into a Looney Toons glass and tips it all back before he flicks the TV on and mindlessly watches some show on dangerous animals.

After Cas is clean and Dean swaps him the couch for the bathroom, they finish their night with microwave dinners and beers and reruns of She-Ra: Princess of Power, because Cas has become fond of the show in Dean’s increased absence for work. Dean doesn’t mind it, though it’s cheesy as all get-out.

And when they settle in for the night, Dean’s fucking grateful that the day is over.

God _damn_.

**X**

Dean visits room three twenty in his less-fun dreams pretty often. Alastair is always there in his pressed suit, smiling in that way that makes Dean feel like he’s naked and slicked in dirty motor oil. Sometimes he makes Dean do things to himself – sometimes just jerking off, other times he makes Dean hurt himself – but in the worst ones Alastair is inside him again, riding him dry. He hurts so much, so fucking much, and when he wakes up from the dreams he swears he still feels Alastair inside him and splitting him apart.  

This dream is not that dream.

This nightmare is familiar, though it hasn’t surfaced in years. He was fifteen. It was the first time a john didn’t listen to him. Dad was on a binge and hadn’t been home in three days. Sam needed lunch money, but Dean only knew because he saw the stamp on Sam’s hand from the cafeteria, not because Sam would ever tell him or Bobby.

Back then, he snuck out after he heard Bobby settle in for bed and hitchhiked to the truck stops at the edge of town. There, he lurked around until an interested guy turned up. Mostly they just wanted Dean to blow them while they told him how much they liked his lips or his eyelashes or his freckles, told him how pretty he was and how his mouth was made for sucking, but sometimes they asked for other things. Dean always said no. They weren’t allowed to touch his ass. It was in his personal rulebook. Most didn’t complain. Getting sucked off was enough. They got their jollies and Dean pocketed a few extra bucks.

He doesn’t even know the name of the man that didn’t listen to him. The first one.

He wasn’t a big man. Middling height, sandy-haired and balding, thin as a rail – Dean didn’t feel threatened by him. He always kept a knife on him just in case, of course, but he didn’t count on it being out of reach – because he didn’t count on being out of his jeans, where the knife was nestled in his pocket.

It seemed like a run-of-the-mill blow for a twenty, so Dean slid into the passenger’s seat of the guy’s truck. It smelled like chewing tobacco and mint-scented car freshener. The smell of mint car freshener makes Dean feel like vomiting to this day.

The guy drove them away from the truck stop and parked off underneath the highway. Dean didn’t question it when they moved to the bed of his red pickup, just followed. He shouldn’t have followed. Christ, but he should not have followed.

He passed Dean a twenty, and Dean sank to his knees. The floor of the truck bed made his knees ache, but most guys only ever took a few minutes to get off.

It all went to hell when Dean undid the guy’s silver buffalo belt buckle. He grabbed Dean by his hair and shoved him down onto his back. He was so much stronger than he looked, arms thin but sinewy from hard labor. He knelt on Dean’s chest.

He couldn’t breathe.

His lungs burned and he struggled. He knew how to fight. Dad taught him how to fight. But he couldn’t roll away or kick up. The bed of the pickup was too small and Dean was trapped. Caged in like a wild animal.

The guy jerked Dean’s jeans and underwear down in one go. That was when Dean remembers being terrified beyond anything he ever felt before, beyond the night his mom died, beyond when his dad was missing for weeks at a time, beyond Sammy being sick or teachers trying to ‘connect’ with him. He was so scared and all he remembers doing is shouting NO NO NO NO FUCK NO GET OFF NO, and nothing else.

When the guy spit on his hand, Dean knew that was that. He wasn’t gonna give up – Winchesters didn’t give up – so he kept fighting. But he was going to be…to be _raped._

The man leaned down and licked his lips. He ran his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear and whispered, “I love it when they struggle, pretty boy.”

Dean cried when the man shoved his dick inside him. It hurt, and it wasn’t the kind of hurt he was used to. He was used to punches and schoolyard scuffles, not this. The only thing lubricating the ride was meager spit and then Dean’s own blood. He tried to swing his fists but the guy hit Dean, knocking his head against the floor of the truck bed.

Dean’s head cracked and he went dizzy.

He chipped a tooth.

It was when the guy wrapped his hands around Dean’s throat that he thought he was going to die.

**X**

“DEAN!”

Dean gasps awake. He’s shaking so hard he can see it even in the dark of the bedroom. He smears a hand down his face and fuck, finds wet underneath his eyes. Oh, holy hell. All he can do is smell mint car freshener and feel his own blood being used to fuck him.

He jerks out of bed, hyperventilating. He finds his leather jacket draped across the arm of Gabriel’s beloved armchair and struggles with trembling hands to find the cigarettes tucked into the left inside pocket. Jesus, he’s so fucked. He hasn’t had that dream in years. He thought it was gone, nothing but a memory stomped way, way down into the back of his mind.

Dean spills whiskey onto the counter pouring himself a glass. He doesn’t care. He leaves the mess, and throws open the door to the tiny slab of concrete that Gabriel calls a deck to smoke.

It takes too many tries to get the end of his cigarette to light but he manages it and takes a glorious first drag before tipping back a mouthful of whiskey.

Shit.

It’s raining. The deck of the people one floor up keeps Dean blissfully dry.

When Dean finishes his cigarette, he lights another.

His breath doesn’t come quite as hard now. The back of his skull hurts as though it only just cracked against the bed of that red pickup and his eyes sting, but at least he’s breathing right again. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. The clink of that buffalo belt buckle echoes in his ears, followed only by the sick murmur of _I love it when they struggle, pretty boy._

“Dean?”

Dean whirls around and fumbles with his hand against his thigh as though he’s fifteen and wearing his jeans again, pocketknife on his person.

But it’s just Cas. His leg is on, and a robe knotted in place around his waist.

“Fuck,” Dean says, “Sorry. I don’t – I don’t have that dream much anymore. I’m sorry.”

Cas comes forward and asks, “Could I have one of your cigarettes?”

Dean nods and hands him one. He thumbs his lighter and Cas leans into the flame.

Plumes of smoke fan out into the cold rain as they smoke silently. Castiel doesn’t move to touch Dean or part his lips to speak, but he does watch him. Dean can feel his eyes.

Dean tips back whiskey, licks the liquid from his lips and says, “There was this guy, when I was fifteen. I went with him to suck him off for some money. I told him I didn’t do ass stuff. He fucked me anyway.”

He doesn’t know why he says any of it, and he doesn’t _feel better_ once it’s out. It’s the first time he’s ever spoken those words out loud, ever told anyone, ever, what happened. He bites down so hard on his lower lip that the iron taste of blood fills his mouth.

Dean doesn’t remember much after the hands closed around his throat. He woke up under the bridge with his jeans down around his ankles and a dried loogie on his face. He knew if he went to the hospital that they’d call his dad or Bobby, so he walked home despite each step hurting like nothing else. On another day he might have hitchhiked, but he was so afraid to relive what happened in that pickup.

“Oh,” Castiel says, “Oh, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“I failed to look out for Samandriel, and he died in the bomb blast. I couldn't get him out. I was a coward,” Cas says.

“Samandriel?” Dean asks, and lights a third cigarette.

“He was my best friend,” Cas replies, “His family was strict like mine. Religious. He wanted to be a painter.”

“I got pissed off at Sam yesterday ‘cause he told me our dead mom would be proud of me,” Dean says, and exhales smoke.

Cas nods, “My family disowned me over Skype when I told them I was gay. I was in Paktika.”

“Je- _sus_ ,” Dean says to that. He never had anything like that happen. The first time Sam caught him macking on a dude, he wrinkled his nose and said ‘finish up ‘cause I want to do my homework’ like he typically did if Dean was hogging their shared bedroom. Dean doesn’t know what his dad might’ve thought.

Dean clears his throat and says, “I never told anybody about that guy until now.”

“I’ve never spoken about Samandriel,” Cas responds.

Dean stares into the empty glass in his hand and says, “We need more fuckin’ liquor.”

“I agree,” Cas says.

So Dean returns inside and pours Cas some whiskey before he refills his own glass. Castiel sits in one of Gabe’s plastic lawn chairs when Dean returns, cigarette between his lips and eyes focused elsewhere, beyond the parking lot, the orange-glow of the streetlamps, and out into ironclad, cloudy night sky.

“Thank you,” he still says when Dean hands him the glass of scotch.

Dean lowers himself into the twin chair beside Cas’.

The light of the streetlamps reflects from the clouds and bathes the world in dim orange. The rain makes everything smell like earth, but through it, Dean can still smell Castiel – his expensive soap, his skin. Something leaks into Dean. It’s affection, maybe. Maybe something else. He doesn’t know, but it warms him down to the gut like good liquor, and wraps around him like a fleece blanket.

The light gives Cas a glow, something eerie and heavenly, cigarette smoke twisting and spiraling around him as he puffs on the end of his smoke.

“You’re somethin’ else, angel,” Dean murmurs.

At that, Cas turns to look at him and says, “You too, Dean.”

**X**

Something shifts.

They don’t discuss it.

Instead, Dean and Castiel fall asleep so close that their breath mingles. They throw themselves into their runs. When they kiss there’s something underneath, twisting into both of them, squeezing them so tightly they could burst.

They do not run from it.

**X**

March drifts into April. They add weightlifting to their exercise regimen.

Rain or shine, Dean and Cas run. They tend to kiss when they return – in the shower, in the bedroom, on the couch, out on the tiny concrete deck with cigarettes between fingers and scotch glasses in hand. They kiss a lot.

Dean applies to school.

He also drives Cas to weekly appointments at the Topeka VA.

They prescribe Castiel pills with names on the labels that Dean can’t pronounce.

**X**

On an evening mid-April, Castiel and Dean have the apartment to themselves. Gabriel is _out to dinner_ with Kali, whom they think may be his official girlfriend, though neither of them has mustered gusto enough to really ask. They only tease Gabe until he swears at them and buries himself in Adventure Time marathons.

They’re freshly showered from their run, sprawled out on their respective sides of the bed reading instead of watching TV. Dean is reading Cat’s Cradle, and little could distract him from his goal to complete it tonight. Outside the first warm night of the year marks Lawrence. It’s only a matter of time before heat settles down for a few months, and chiggers come out to play. Dean hopes he won’t get bitten as much as he did last year. He fuckin’ hates those bites.

Cas holds some Star Wars book in his hands, turned with his back to Dean.

Dean catches himself staring and tries to return his attention to Cat’s Cradle. He can’t. He focuses on Castiel’s wings instead, the lines and whorls of intricate ink and shading. Without thinking, he lifts his hand to brush his fingertips against the tattoo, tracing a feather that sprouts close against the spine. Cas’ muscles tense, and he throws a glance over his shoulder.

“You are not going to read, are you?” he asks, voice low.

“Not when you talk like that, I’m not,” Dean says, and offers up a smile.

“This is how I always talk,” Cas replies, head tilting with confusion.

Dean lets out a chuckle and says, “Yeah. Maybe that’s the problem.” He closes Cat’s Cradle and tucks it away, plucking the Star Wars book from Cas’ hands to do the same.

Dean covers Cas’ body with his. The exercise routines have defined his body even more, and it does things to him. He skates fingers over Cas’ nipples, dipping his head down to draw his tongue across each. Already his breath begins to come fast, his dick hard inside his boxers. Cas makes a noise of complaint when Dean pulls away and rests a hand on the back of Dean’s neck, tugging him in for more. Dean groans into the kiss when Cas coaxes his mouth open, stroking inside with his tongue. He tastes like coffee.

Of their own accord, Deans hips roll against Cas. He’s hard too, Christ.

Dean shifts back, and stares down at Castiel.

A incredible wave of heat splashes over him at the sight of Cas boxed under him, blue eyes warm with lust and contentment and – some other something that Dean can’t identify. His dark hair is mussed up. Dean’s gut twists.

“I…” Dean starts.

He knows where they tend to take this. Sometimes one of them takes both their cocks in hand and strokes them to climax. Other times it’s handies, other times they worship each other with their mouths. Sometimes they rut against each other naked.

But Dean’s never let Cas inside him, and Cas has never let Dean inside him.

“You – what, Dean?” Cas asks, voice thick.

“Want you,” Dean says, before he realizes the gravity of his own words, “I want you. I want to be under you, and I want you in me, angel.”

Genuine surprise flickers to life in Cas’ blue eyes. He rolls up on his elbows and studies him, brows crunched together as though he’s worried Dean’s possessed by an entity other than himself. He licks his chapped lips and asks, “Dean, are you certain?”

“Mega-certain, man,” Dean says.

The words are true.

Cas understands. He moves them both, rubbing his hands over Dean as he pulls him into place and moves on top of him. A gentle smile curves his mouth and creases the corners of his eyes, and shit, Dean swears he has never wanted something more in that moment. It’s Cas. Cas is fucking awesome.

“You,” Cas exhales, “You are beautiful. I hope you know that.”

Dean doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to something like that, so he urges Cas down into a kiss. Lazily, they tongue at each other’s mouths. It’s ginger at first, but evolves in instants when their erections graze each other through their cotton underwear.

Cas moans into Dean’s stubbly cheek and kisses there, licking along his jaw and neck, stroking thumbs over his nipples and down his scarred abdomen to his hipbones. He dips his hand below the elastic waistband of Dean’s underwear and ghosts his open palm over Dean’s erection.

Dean grunts in complaint and thrusts up into Cas’ grip.

“Shh,” Cas says, and presses his lips to Dean’s temple, “Be patient.”

“Fuck that, dude, get in me,” Dean complains, and squirms under Cas’ hands.

Cas laughs a little and noses at the hollow of Dean’s throat, applying kisses there before he agrees, “All right, all right,” and pulls Dean’s boxers down past his ankles, throwing the underwear across the room, someplace among the stacks of books along the wall. Cas’ own underwear follows. His cock is swollen red and leaking precome at the tip. Dean feels _hungry_ just looking at it, but he’s not going to put his mouth on Cas’ cock tonight, he’s going to be fucked by it, because that’s what he wants.

Hell, yeah.

Castiel kisses Dean everywhere. He kisses the insides of Dean’s elbows and his sides and underneath his knees. He kisses every scar and the tattoo over Dean’s heart. He kisses his nose and neck and mouth, his head and down his abdomen, into the tangled nest of hair that surrounds his erection. In fact, Cas deliberately puts his lips to every last body part but Dean’s cock. It’s maddening, and wonderful, oh, Jesus Christ.

When the wet heat of Cas’ mouth closes around his cock, Dean could come. He shouts and writhes, but holds back.

“Cas,” he lets out a gasp, throat dry, “Stop. Gonna come if you keep doing that.”

Castiel pulls off of him and Dean clarifies, “Wanna come while you fuck me.”

Dean actually flushes at that, like a virgin. Son of a bitch.

“As you wish,” Cas smiles.

Dean snorts, “Did you just quote Princess Bride at me?”

Cas tilts his head, “Perhaps.”

Dean doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact that this implies that he’s Buttercup before he hears the pop of a cap and sees slick on Cas’ fingers reflect in the electric light. Cas warms the liquid between his fingers, but his eyes never once leave Dean’s face. He only breaks his gaze when he uses his dry hands to part Dean’s legs.

“I want to look at your face while we do it,” Cas tells him, “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Dean says, “Yes, please, angel.”

The name makes Cas smile again. It almost distracts Dean enough not to feel the nudge at his entrance, the warm, wet slide of a finger inside him.

“Holy shit,” Dean says. Fuck, that feels good. It feels really, really damn good.

Cas crooks the finger against Dean’s prostate and he launches off of the mattress with a yell. Cas laughs, and Dean flips him off, but the moment is short-lived: Cas slides a second finger in to join the first. Dean throws his head back. The sensation is strange and good. He should be used to this, he thinks, but he isn’t. Not wanting it this much, anyway. He sinks his hips down the when Cas teases him, pulling his fingers all the way inside of him.

He rides Cas’ hand. He leverages his hips up and down while Cas works him open. Castiel's face is so serious, so concentrated that Dean has to nudge at Cas with his foot and grin at him. Cas glances up from where his hand plies Dean open between his legs. His eyes flash and  then he grins, too.

When Cas fits another finger inside him, Dean’s near-desperate. He’s sweating now, rubbing up against Cas’ hand all rapid and dirty. Shit, he hasn't been fucked like this since grade school.

“Okay, okay,” Dean groans out, and kicks a little at Cas’ side, “C’mon, dude. Time’s a-wasting.”

“Gabriel won’t be back until –”

“That’s not what I – will you stick a cork in it and just fuck me already?” Dean demands, “I’m dying.”

Cas snorts, “Needy,” and Dean kicks him in the head.

Castiel withdraws his hand. With the cold of its absence, a shudder shakes Dean’s spine. But Cas is efficient. He slicks himself with lube and arranges Dean’s legs onto his broad shoulders. His navigation is a little clumsy without his prosthetic on, but he’s far more strong and balanced than Dean would be if he only had one leg.

The hot sensation of soft skin edging close to him overtakes him. Cas’ cock is nudging at him. This is where Dean typically feels panic.

He holds his breath, Cas slides in an inch, and then he breathes.

There’s no panic, just bare _want._ His toes curl as Cas slides into place.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean says.

Cas begins with maddeningly slow, thorough thrusts forward and back. Dean rises to meet him, that full and sore sensation making him stupid and giddy all the way to the tips of his fingers. He clutches at the sheets and groans.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” Dean squeezes out.

Cas’ calculated movement hitches. His hips rock faster. A bead of sweat trails down from his brow and drips onto his shoulder, rolling down as Dean grips the bedding and rises up to meet every moment, loving every second of sensation and pain and the brush of _Cas_ against his prostate.

Cas mumbles in another language – Pashto, Gabriel called it – his hips no longer working to a rhythm but fucking without thought as he slips and slides. He swears when he slides from Dean’s body and holds himself at the base of his dick to thrust in again, lost to the feeling.

And then Cas’ fist curls around Dean’s erection, and he works his hand against the movements of his body. Dean’s mind works into overdrive. He’s drowning in the force of it, only pulled from it when Cas slams up into him and curls his spine and swears. Dean feels the come inside him.

A short minute later, Dean comes too, shouting so loudly that the neighbors in the apartment next door knock angrily against the wall, sending both he and Cas into fits of dumb, happy laughter.

Cas draws out of Dean and nestles their bodies together, panting. His chest presses against Dean's spine, sticky and too-hot, but too goddamn perfect for Dean to want to move, or to complain about being the  _little spoon._

“How – how do feel?” he asks. His hand is in Dean's hair, stroking through the damp strands. 

Dean turns his head just enough for Castiel to see his grin and replies, “Like the goddamn Batman.”

Cas smothers his laughter into Dean’s sweat-damp shoulder.


	14. New Skin for this Old Skeleton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whomp sorry this is later than you're all used to. In Colorado's recent decision that it would actually like to be Washington, my asthma decided to show up for the first time in eight years and I have been so tired because of it, holy crap.
> 
> Thank you all again for your support. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Chapter Track: Head On – Man Man**

**_New Skin for this Old Skeleton_ **

“We’re doing a thing at Bobby’s for my birthday,” Sam says to Dean over the phone, on his day off on a rainy afternoon. He ducked outside onto the deck to take the call, but inside, he and Cas are enjoying some coffee made with Gabriel’s fancy new machine (“It makes _foam_ , you guys!”) despite Castiel’s concerns about it (“How much did you pay for this contraption, exactly?”). They woke late in the day and exchanged lazy morning blowjobs, laughing and teasing each other the entire way through. They were rewatching Fantastic Mr. Fox when Sam called because Cas wanted to, and Dean has trouble telling Cas no, even when he’d prefer to watch Pulp Fiction.

“That’s cool,” Dean settles on saying, shuffling uncomfortably on the concrete.

Dean grimaces at Sam’s long, drawn-out sigh on the other end of the call, but isn’t surprised when he says, “I want you to be there, Dean.”

“Sammy…” he says, “I don’t – I’m…Christ, I don’t know, dude.”

“You could bring Cas,” Sam suggests, “Bobby wants to meet him.”

“You told Bobby about Cas?” Dean says, “Dude!”

“Yeah, I did, ‘cause Bobby keeps asking about you and I told him what you’ve been up to. Minus the sex work stuff,” Sam says, “You should call him at least. He misses you, man. You’re his kid, idiot.”

Guilt hits Dean at that, railing through his gut. He runs fingers back through his hair, yet unstyled since he has no place to be this morning, and says, “I miss him too, but,” he sighs, “you know how shit was the last time I lived in Sioux Falls, man. It both sucked and blew. You guys kept waiting for me to fuck up again.”

“That’s not true,” Sam says, “We were worried. It’s what families do.”

“Well it was fucking tedious,” Dean says, “You know I don’t want to miss your birthday. I could send some more money –”

“I don’t want money, asshole, I want my brother,” Sam says exasperatedly, “Maybe you don’t remember, but when we were kids, you always made sure my birthday didn’t suck. Sure, Bobby and Ellen helped you plan parties for me and invite my friends, but it was you, dude. You made me feel normal for a while. The first birthday I had without you was fucking terrible, okay? I thought maybe since we were cool again – yeah.”

Something under Dean’s ribcage pinches and relents. He does miss Bobby and Ellen and Jo.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally.

Sam exhales and says, “Thanks, dude. That’s all I ask.”

“Yeah,” Dean awkwardly replies, “I’m gonna go now.”

“Text me when you make up your mind,” Sam says, “and take care of yourself, man.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, and hangs up his cell, reaching down to stuff it into the pocket of his jeans before he realizes that he never bothered to put pants on and is only wearing his boxer briefs.

Cas is in the kitchen pouring himself another round of coffee when Dean closes the sliding glass door and tosses his cell onto the couch.

“Was that Sam?” he asks, when Dean hovers behind him and dumps his cold, half-drunk coffee in  the sink in favor of a fresh mug.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “He wants me to drive up to Sioux Falls for his birthday. They’re doing a thing, I guess.”

“What did you say?” asks Cas. He stirs his coffee and sets the dirty spoon in the sink before he turns, leaning his back against the counter to watch Dean with careful eyes. He lifts his mug to his lips and drinks, but doesn’t shift his gaze.

“Told him I’d think about it,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, “What if – would you come? If I asked?”

“ _Are_ you asking?” Cas queries, and lifts one dark brow. That expression does things to Dean.

Dean considers the pros and cons of this disaster. On one hand, if he went with Cas, he’d have somebody to keep him sane within the insanity that is his weird fucking family unit. On the other, Cas could join the Winchester-Singer-Harvelle ranks against Dean and parrot the ever-irritating _what are you doing with your life_ or _I’m just so disappointed in you._

But as Dean studies Cas, he realizes that Cas knows what Dean wants, and he’s never been anything but good to him, even when they’re pissed off at each other and throw things or drink too much or yell. They always fix what they fucked up.

Dean runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth before he answers with a definitive nod, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m asking.”

A tiny smile curves on Cas’ face and he nods, “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

Dean doesn’t have a single damn clue why that sentence should make him so happy, but he hugs Cas so hard that hot coffee sloshes onto the front of both of their t-shirts. Neither of them even cares – they throw their mugs into the kitchen sink and Dean slides his ass up onto the kitchen counter for better access to Cas’ coffee-flavored mouth. Jesus, he tastes amazing, and his tongue feels amazing. Dean could die right here and be happy. He hooks his feet around the back of Cas' legs to draw him in closer, to ply deeper into his mouth and feel his stubble scratch over Dean's jaw.

When they break apart Dean scratches the back of his neck again and offers a sheepish smile, “Uh, just so you know – my folks are kinda crazy.”

“I doubt they’re any crazier than my family,” Cas replies. He noses at the skin above the collar of Dean’s coffee-stained t-shirt and nips at his neck.

“Dude, you have no idea,” Dean says.

He shoves down his fear at the prospect of returning home.

**X**

When Dean drops Cas off at the VA clinic for his weekly appointment with Chuck, a quiet excitement buzzes still through Castiel knowing that in not even two weeks he will be meeting Dean’s family. Dean speaks very little of them, but the expression on his face when Castiel asks about them speaks enough for itself. There’s pain there, like there was when Dean mentioned his brother before Sam appeared in Trickster in January.

And even after Sam swept into Lawrence, after all the healing and mending the broken that occurred, Dean confesses little insecurities. He doesn’t know he confesses them, most likely. Castiel is just a very good listener.

When Dean says, “Sammy’s the smart Winchester,” he means that he doesn’t think himself smart.

When Dean says, “Wish Sam could’ve had a better childhood,” a silent _than the one that I gave him_ lingers at the end of the sentence.

Cas knows very little about John Winchester, but he gathers Sam and Dean’s father had a love of liquor that often surpassed the love of his children, a love that led to his story ending with his corpse trapped inside his estranged best friend’s truck, which he wrapped around a telephone pole.

Much of the information Cas knows about Dean’s family comes when Dean’s intoxicated. Castiel would reflect on this in relation to the knowledge he has on John, but Cas also tends to reveal more when he’s split scotch with Dean than when he’s stone cold sober and cautious once more.

Cas waves to Garth when he enters the building. He doesn’t always see Garth when he arrives for his appointments, but does more often than not. In addition to attending group therapies, Garth volunteers at the VA. Typically he pushes around a book cart in the inpatient facility, but sometimes he’s placed elsewhere.

“How goes it?” Garth asks as Castiel waits for the elevator to return to the first level.

“The weather is inconvenient,” Cas responds, referring to the bout of spring rains they’d been suffering lately, “It makes my leg hurt.”

Also, Dean dislikes driving in the rain because he swears up and down that _shitty Kansas drivers gonna hurt his baby_ , something simultaneously endearing and irritating to Castiel.

“Been hearing a lot of that,” Garth nods, “Don’t know much about prosthetics myself, but way back when I took a round to my back and woo- _wee_ if rain doesn’t give me the time of my life with that. Days like this make me wish I could bring my nana back from the dead just to say I’m sorry about teasing when she said she could feel storms in her bones. You knew what you were talking about, Nana,” Garth blows a kiss toward the ceiling.

The elevator lets out a musical ping and the doors open, letting out one sullen-looking older man in a wheelchair and his apple-cheeked wife pushing him along. Cas waits for them to exit before he offers Garth a smile and a wave goodbye.

Kevin greets Cas with a floppy salute when he rounds into the offices, gait off-kilter from his sore stump in his fake leg. He collapses in one of the ugly mauve chairs in the waiting area and from the pocket of his too-large overcoat removes the book he’s reading. He picked it up at Cloud Nine with several quarters that he shook out of the change jar in the kitchen.

He should probably get a job. Stealing quarters from one’s older brother seems highly undignified.

Before he can dwell too closely on this, Chuck leans against the door between the waiting area and the office and says, “Heya, Castiel. You ready?”

Cas stands and nods. Chuck closes the office door behind them and faces Castiel with a smile. He says, “First off, how’ve you been?”

“All right,” Cas says, “I’ve only had two nightmares this week.” And the one last night was awful, so vivid that Cas swore he felt flames climb up his right leg again. He woke up screaming, and Gabriel nearly broke his bedroom door off the hinges in his concern for Cas’ safety. Gabe didn’t used to worry so much about Cas – not when they were young, not even a little. Anna fussed and worried, but never Gabriel.

“My brother Gabriel never used to fret so much,” Cas slowly admits, “I think having Dean around eases him a little, but – the dream last night was terrible, and I…” he takes in a shuddering breath and tries not to pick too hard at the skin around his fingernails. He’s been making them bleed with his fidgeting, “I was very loud.”

“A great trauma, like what you’ve been through, often affects those close to us, too,” Chuck reasons. Cas nods, and he takes this as a sign to continue, “This is a good segue into some stuff I wanted to talk to you about today, though. I’m thinking I’d like to start you on your EMDR.”

“Now?” Cas manages. His thumbnail digs so hard into the cuticle of the pinkie on his left hand that a bead of blood swells to life.

“Dude, no,” Chuck says, “I wanted to give you time to mull it over. I was thinking we could start next week.”

Cas shakes his head.

“Why not?” asks Chuck.

“It, um. It’s not that I don’t want to try,” Cas says, though he’d actually like to avoid that particular therapy for as long as possible. Everything that he has read about it on the internet, despite clinical descriptions, sounds highly unpleasant, “but I am supposed to drive to Sioux Falls with Dean for his brother’s birthday and I don’t want extra stress beforehand.”

Chuck nods to this, “That’s cool, we can put it off. But I _do_ want to try.”

“I understand,” Cas affords this a tight nod, relieved to know that they can wait to approach the therapy, and shifts the topic back to Dean, “I’ve never met his family before. Except his brother, I mean. Sam is in school at Stanford.”

Chuck whistles, “Dang. That’s impressive.”

“Dean is very proud,” Cas agrees, “Though he doesn’t say as much.”

Chuck and Castiel discuss Sam a little more, speaking of Jessica and how she defeated Castiel in chess twice throughout her and Sam’s stay at Gabriel’s apartment in January. Cas maintains both times were flukes, as he is _not_ easily overtaken in chess. He grew up conquering Michael and Lucifer and Raphael all on the chessboard. Michael always took the losses with grace, though Raphael and Lucifer were both sore losers in their own right.

To be fair, being beaten at a game of logic by a six-year-old could not have been pleasant.

Ah, that was back when Father was proud of him.

By the time that the clock comes full circle and the session winds to a close, Castiel feels strange. He hasn’t discussed his brothers even with Gabriel, and that isn’t for lack of Gabriel asking. The first time that Gabriel asked after the others, Castiel was wrapped up in bandages and misery in a hospital bed overseas. Gabe had only been there a few hours, and he asked, “How come I’m your emergency contact, kiddo?”

Castiel had responded, “Do not call me kiddo,” but obviously that request continues to go disregarded.

Cas did feel he owed Gabriel enough information to understand, though, and so he’d come out to him quietly and explained that Michael declared Castiel cut off on their father’s behalf. Gabe couldn’t embrace Castiel in the state that he was in, so he’d squeezed his arm and promised that everything would be okay.

Cas wasn’t stupid. He knew “Everything will be all right” was a platitude that people threw around when they didn’t know what else to say, but at least Gabriel cared enough about him to be at his side in the hospital uttering platitudes in the first place.

With this thought on his mind, Cas leaves Chuck and says a soft goodbye to Kevin, whose feet are kicked up on his desk and his cellphone in his hand. He shifts guiltily when Cas emerges, but Castiel waves Kevin off and tells him to keep comfortable. He texts Dean to come get him, and thinks with a streak of annoyance that he wishes he knew how to drive.

He is so damn tired of being an invalid.

Dean pulls up to the front of the clinic and Castiel clambers into the passenger’s seat. They don’t speak. Instead, Castiel falls asleep against the cool window glass as a drizzle beats against it, Kansas playing at a quiet volume from Dean’s cassette player. He doesn’t wake until Dean jostles him in front of the apartment building. The rain still bothers his leg, so Cas limps his way to the elevator, and does it on his own, brushing Dean off when he offers his arm for support.

“You okay?” Dean finally ventures, when they’re safely locked inside the apartment.

“Fine,” grunts Castiel, “I simply dislike being treated as though I cannot accomplish things on my own.”

“That’s not what I –”

“I know, Dean,” Cas tersely says, and they drop it.

And that night when Cas dreams of dark and heat and pain that night and gasps awake, he leaves Dean sleeping in bed and slides into his right leg to make coffee and watch television to keep his mind off of the ghost pain in the leg that doesn’t exist, and the phantom ache of the absence of Samandriel, the friend that no longer lives.

**X**

“You kids be good now,” Gabriel says, as Dean packs the last of their belongings into the trunk and backseat of the Impala. A silly grin graces his brother’s face, and if Cas had to venture a guess, he’d say that Kali will be in the apartment the moment that the Impala leaves Lawrence. As Castiel makes a move to open the door on the passenger’s side, Gabe swoops in from behind and picks Cas up in a hug so enthusiastic he lifts Cas’ feet an entire inch off the ground.

Cas turns to glare, but watches Gabe’s face shift to serious.

“If you need anything,” Gabriel says, “You call me, you hear? I’ll drive up there and come get you if I need to.”

“I’ll be fine,” Cas assures him.

And if he isn’t fine, he can figure out how to handle it on his own.

The Impala smells like leather warmed in the sun and like Dean when Cas sinks into his seat and buckles himself in. Gabriel waves as they turn out of the parking lot and he waves back before he leans over to unlatch his leg and roll the sleeve off – he wants to be comfortable if they’re to be trapped in a car for nearly six hours. He dressed according to this credo, in a Great Gatsby t-shirt he found in a bookstore, and loose, soft jeans that he has to fasten with a belt so they don’t sling too low on his hips. Dean informs him that he looks sexy.

“I’ve never been on a road trip,” Cas admits when they enter the highway.

Dean turns to stare incredulously and says, “Dude, what? Oh, man, you’re missing out. There’s nothing like it. And this isn’t even a super road trip. This is like, a mini road trip. Still, the sun, the air, gas station food. Doesn’t get better than that. Didn’t you ever travel with your folks?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “But we always flew first class to our destinations.” He remembers all the way back to being a boy, sitting beside Anna with a book in his grip while she cross-stitched or crocheted. When he was much younger he used to fill in coloring books, but Father soon told him that he was too old for them. Castiel stopped coloring after that, because he wanted nothing more than to please his father.

And now he has an indescribable urge to purchase a coloring book, despite being a man in his early thirties.

In fascination Cas watches as Lawrence melts away and flows into Kansas City, as they roll over the Missouri River and out of Kansas. Trees whip by the windows, and an advertisement on a billboard declaring that they should find Jesus.

“Didn’t know Jesus was lost,” Cas mutters, and Dean sputters with laughter.

Halfway through the trip, Dean pulls into a gas station in a tiny town. Cas has to open the door to the Impala and swing his limbs around to reattach his prosthetic, and as he does spots a little girl with strawberry blond pigtails sticking out of either side of her head. He waves and smiles at her, and she ducks her head shyly before he waves back.

He doesn’t even notice her approach him until she’s a foot from his nose. She’s so close he can smell the artificial berry scent of her no-tears shampoo, and see half-eaten pretzel bits on one chubby cheek.

“You got an owie,” she informs him sagely.

“That I did,” Cas agrees, “My nieces call me a pirate.”

The girl sticks her hand in her mouth thoughtfully, and then asks through her fingers, “Can I touch?”

Castiel feels his shoulders tense. Children are not his strong suit. They are both the most easily accepting creatures and the quickest to judge, and that baffles him. But what harm could this tiny person do, really? So he says, “All right.”

The girl places her hand on the prosthetic and then pokes it.

“Where is your real leg?” she asks.

Cas exhales at this and rolls his jeans up further. He unlatches his limb and peels down the sleeve so that she can see. She places her hand on the scar tissue and reiterates her earliest assessment of Castiel with a succinct, “Owie.”

“Owie, indeed,” Cas nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Dean watching them. He’s stiff, defensive, as though he thinks he might have to fight off a little thing in ponytails that is missing one shoe.

“Emily!”

A woman jogs to them and, red-faced, apologizes, “I’m so sorry. Emily, you scared Mama.”

“That’s all right,” Cas assures her, “she was just curious…but, you should probably listen to your mom, Emily. Not every stranger is a pirate.” He winks, and Emily chortles.

Emily’s mother offers a swift smile and scoops her toddler off of the oil-stained concrete. She carries her back to a hybrid SUV where a bespectacled husband waits in the driver’s seat. Castiel reattaches his prosthetic and turns back to Dean to announce that he’s ducking into the gas station convenience store to use the restroom. He makes quick work of the task, eyeing the condom dispenser beside the urinals for a brief second before he decides that Dean probably packed some.

He also purchases a coffee and a dinosaur coloring book with a package of knockoff crayons.

Dean smirks a little when Cas returns and opens the book on his lap.

“That a coloring book?” he asks.

“One is never too old for coloring books,” Castiel informs him.

An odd little smile quirks up Dean’s lips and makes his green eyes crinkle at the corners at Cas’ words. Warmth like good coffee spreads through Castiel’s gut. He smiles, too.

The bumps in the road jostle Cas’ crayons and make his coloring wavy and ugly-looking, but he doesn’t care. There’s a certain sense of liberation in being a thirty one year old man in a classic car with a man he cares about and fucks on a regular basis, on a ‘mini’ road trip, with a coloring book in his lap. A stupid grin spreads his lips, and Cas gazes out the window at the scenery as it whips by. He’s doing what he wants, and for the first time in his life, the rebellion feels worth it.

**X**

Castiel attaches his prosthetic when Dean tells him, voice rough, that they’re about five minutes away from Bobby’s house. He studies Dean as he drives, and knows that Dean is pointedly not acknowledging him.

So Cas just says, “I’m glad that you asked me to come.”

Dean affords this a tight nod.

Singer Salvage Yard is not what Cas expected. In truth, he does not know what he expected. They pull around to the back of the house, among trashed cars and skeletons of vehicles, tires and engines. Sam’s Honda sits parked between two trucks. The yard is overgrown with weeds and the ground is soft from recent precipitation as he steps out. They leave their things packed away in the trunk of the Impala as they trudge to the back door.

Dean pries aside the screen door and knocks three times, hard and concise.

A young blond woman throws open the door. At the sight of Dean, she lets out a strange, strangled noise and throws her arms around him with such force that Dean stumbles back and Cas moves out of the way. He steps to the side, careful to avoid a patch of colorful flowers that look like they might be meant to be there.  

“I missed you,” she says, and then, “Holy crap, you look good. Hey, this is that guy from your birthday pictures. Who are you?”

Cas looks up from where he focused on his feet and glances from Dean to the blond before he answers, “Oh. Um. Castiel?”

“I’m Jo,” she replies, and holds out a hand. When Cas takes it, her shake is firm. She is stronger than she appears.

“Dean?”

A gruff, throaty voice speaks from the door.

A bearded man in a worn blue and white cap and plaid flannel comes down the back steps. He stands stock still for a long, winding moment, studying Dean as though he doesn’t believe that it’s possible for him to be real, standing in the mud at the back of Singer Salvage Yard. An instant later he has thick arms thrown around Dean, eyes wet though Cas doesn’t think that he’ll cry.

“Jesus, Bobby, let a guy breathe, will you?” Dean jokes, but his voice is raw and cracked and bleeding.

“Fuck that, you idjit, I’m gonna hug you and you’re gonna like it,” Bobby says.

An ache forms under Cas’ ribs, a longing sprouting up that he didn’t know was there. He wonders if this is how Dean felt at Christmastime, or when Gabriel and Cas laugh together about things that only a pair of black sheep brother could understand. Dean has a family, and they love him, circumstances of Dean’s departure from this place far aside.

When Bobby releases Dean, Dean’s smiling, but his brow is crinkled. Cas wants nothing more than to kiss that worried skin away, but he knows that wouldn’t be appropriate now. Instead, he holds his hands in front of him and picks at his cuticles, shifting from foot to foot to adjust the weight against his prosthetic.

Bobby’s eyes settle on Cas and instinct kicks in. He lets his hands fall neatly to his sides and straightens his spine. Bobby gives off the aura of a commanding officer, a knowledgeable and superior-ranked man. He takes note of Cas’ stance and hazards a guess, “Military?”

“Ex-military,” Cas supplies, and when Bobby’s thick brows slide together under the shadow of the bill of his dirty baseball cap, Castiel clutches the right leg of jeans in hand and lifts them up, just enough to reveal a glimmer of artificial limb.

Bobby spares a glance at the leg before Cas drops denim back over it, and lifts his eyes to meet Cas’. Cas swallows the knot in his throat but does not break eye contact.

Bobby nods at him, and without either of them speaking a word, he thinks that they have reached an understanding.

When they step inside the house, a sense of hominess overwhelms Castiel. He smells something cooking, but also old books and worn, loved things. They walk into the kitchen and find a middle-aged, pretty woman tending the stove and Sam and Jess sitting at the table, talking and smiling. When she sees Dean, she swears and drops the wooden spoon in her hand to hug him.

And when she pulls back, she whacks Dean with that same wooden spoon and exclaims, “Goddamnit, boy, why you gotta be so dumb?”

“Ow! Christ, Ellen,” he complains, rubbing his arm where she hit him, and adds, “And I had to leave the good genes for Sammy.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“I’m guessin’ you boys had lunch on the road?” Ellen says, and they both nod. It wasn’t much, just gas station hot dogs and snacks from plastic bags. “Well, I’m makin’ beans and rice if you want some real grub. Dinner’ll be the real show, though. Why don’t you two get settled in? We made up two rooms just in case –”

“I told them not to,” Sam says. He gets swatted with Ellen’s spoon.

“We only need one,” Dean confirms. The statement has more impact than Castiel thought it would, as every set of eyes in the kitchen turns to study him. Ellen’s gaze is far more intimidating than any of the others – she looks, at least, like a mother bear whose cub has been threatened.

“Oh for the love of God,” Dean says, “Leave him alone, you leeches.”

They return to the Impala to gather their things, packed neatly into two large duffels. Jo guides them to their room, a sturdy little setup on the second level of Bobby’s home. The hardwood floors have been recently swept, and the braided rug in the center of the floor beaten out. Upon inspection, the old set of drawers that faces the window on the opposite side of the room is empty, reading to be filled with belongings. The bed is fitted with masculine sheets, plain and dark navy, but on the bedside table an old coffee canister holds flowers like the ones Castiel almost tread over outside.

None of these are remarkable, however, in comparison to the wall décor. Classic cars plaster over the walls, posters and sketches, punctuated with some Playboy clippings and one framed photo. Behind the glass, a very tiny Dean scowls at the camera with a new baby in his arms – Sam. They sit in the lap of a beautiful young woman with eighties bangs curling over one half of her forehead.

“That’s my mom,” Dean says, and Cas jumps.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” he says.

“S’okay,” Dean answers, and lets his duffel drop to the floor, “This used to be my bedroom. I can’t believe they left it as is. Except for the bed. I shared a bunk with Sam. We call that photo the ‘sibling rivalry’ picture, by the way. Bobby says it’s right when I realized I wasn’t the center of my mom’s universe anymore.” Dean laughs quietly, but it’s sad.

Cas places his duffel alongside Dean’s on the floor and then wraps his arms around Dean. He rubs a hand over Dean’s back and Dean relaxes into him, resting his head on Cas’ shoulder. The scent of Dean fills his nostrils, of Cas’ own masculine soap and gasoline and the road. It’s pleasant, and sends tendrils of warmth wrapping around his gut.

Dean lifts his head and crushes their mouths together.

“Ahem.”

They break apart, and heaven help him, Cas blushes. Jo stands in the doorway, one brow smugly cocked, and her arms folded over her t-shirt. She says, “Well then. If you two are done with your little lovefest – Mom says y’all should get your rest in now, ‘cause we’re not letting anyone turn in early tonight.”

“Thank you, Jo,” Cas says, before Dean can comment. She smiles and closes the door behind her.

With that, Castiel takes the suggestion to heart, kicking off his shoes and arranging them alongside the bedroom door before he peels back the navy comforter and sits on the edge of the mattress to remove his prosthetic. Dean joins him, and they wrap around each other to make out under the covers until road weariness overtakes them, and they fall asleep.

**X**

When Cas shifts awake, the bedroom is dark and the other side of the bed cold. The door is closed but light spills into the room from the hallway ouside. Raucous laughter floats up from downstairs. He finds himself smiling up into the dark before he pushes himself out of bed. Unfortunately, he does not remember where he laid out his prosthetic, and the light switch is across the room, so he has to use his arms to leverage himself around in the dark until he trips over it, a foot and a half away from the bed.

Dean grins when Cas comes downstairs and tips his beer up at him, “Hey, buddy, you okay? Heard a bump.”

“Fine,” Cas yawns, “It was dark and I tripped trying to find my leg.” He lifts his jeans for the uninformed parties before he collapses on the sofa beside Dean. An infomercial plays on the television, though the volume is muted.

“You missed dinner,” Jess pipes up, “We saved you a burger.”

Cas brightens at the prospect of homemade burgers and follows Dean into the kitchen when Dean offers to heat it up for him.

“Everything all right?” Dean asks more quietly, and Cas knows he’s talking about everyone knowing about his leg. He would be uncomfortable if this were an average, Norman Rockwell family, he thinks. But they’re not. Dean’s family is as cracked and broken as Castiel’s is. Jo must have a father but that father is no place to be seen. Dean and Sam’s biological parents have both passed on. And Bobby – Bobby is harder to read, but Castiel suspects a military past and other grief sandwiched within that.

Despite all of that, there’s so much love in this home. Castiel feels it in Dean’s untouched bedroom, in the smell of home cooking, in the meticulously swept floorboards, in the quilts draped over the sofas and the children’s drawings hung on the walls. There’s one of a sleek black car drawn in colored pencil, hung in the upstairs hallway that gave Castiel pause before he returned downstairs. It said “DEAN W” in big, sloppy letters. The ‘e’ has two extra legs. Underneath it, neater handwriting said _June 21, 1991._

Dean may have left this house all those years ago when he and Sam fought, but his family’s love for him did not leave with him.

“I’m good,” Cas says. He’s telling the truth.

“Good,” Dean answers, just as the microwave beeps and a homemade patty comes out, steaming and smelling like heaven. Dean slaps it between two wheat buns (he doesn’t even ask Cas “white or wheat?”, he just knows) and hands the burger over on a plate.

When they return to the family room, Sam’s dealing cards for what looks like poker. Dean slings his arm around Cas’ shoulders when they sit. The gesture makes Cas smile at his hand of cards, but he doesn’t fail to notice Ellen watching them carefully over the lip of her beer bottle.

Bobby breaks out some whiskey after a few rounds, an unopened bottle with dust around the top that he looks to have been saving. He wipes it clean on his plaid flannel and pours a glass for everyone.

They laugh and the pot continues to be swept up either by Jessica or Jo, both of whom are far better at poker than they should be. Castiel is a little envious. Dean wins the last round with a whoop of success and pulls Cas in for a PG-13 kiss than leaves them both breathless and red-faced, especially as Bobby and Ellen exchange a glance and raise their brows.

By then it’s late, and Sam and Jessica leave to shower and go to bed. Cas excuses himself to use the restroom. As he washes his hands, he stares at his reflection. He’s a little drunk, but he looks happy. Younger, even, than he has in a long time. It’s been a good night.

He exits the bathroom and finds Ellen and Jo clearing the dishes and alcohol from the family room, rising them in the sink as Bobby nurses the remains of his whiskey, eyes fixed out the kitchen window, toward the far edge of the salvage yard.

“Where’s Dean?” asks Cas.

Bobby looks over and then inclines his head at the window. Cas steps forward and looks out it, squinting against the reflection of the fluorescent light overhead.

Dean sits before a headstone, perched on a rock. A cigarette smokes in between fingers on his right hand, and his empty whiskey glass sits beside his beaten work boots. Even from here, Cas can see the clear word carved into the stone: _John_.

“He’s had a real rough time of it, that boy,” Bobby says, “So you best be careful. I got more guns than any other man in the Midwest.”

“I will,” Cas says, “He cares for me. And I care for him.”

“It ain’t often that boy sticks to one person,” says Bobby, “Sometimes I think it’s ‘cause he don’t wanna end up like John did after Mary passed.”

“Dean doesn’t talk much about his father,” Cas tells him. He starts to pick at the skin around his thumbs.

Bobby snorts at that and replies, “No, I s’pose he wouldn’t, the stubborn idjit. John was real idealistic when we were boys, and when he met Mary in high school I swear you could see the moon in his eyes. He loved her so much she was a piece a’ him, and that piece died when she did. He stopped takin’ care of his boys and sure, I stepped in, but I know Dean got into all kinds a’ crap caring for Sam. And don’t think I didn’t scour up how Sam managed to find his sorry hide. I dug up the same article Sam did, I imagine. You tell me now, did you meet Dean through his _work_?”

Cas licks his lips and figures that Bobby would know if he didn’t tell the truth.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “When I came to Kansas with my brother, I was in terrible shape. Actually, no, I’m still in terrible shape. But I was worse then. I used to patronize a strip club called Elysium. Dean found me outside of it and offered me sex in exchange for money. I accepted, but backed out at the last minute. The following morning he appeared in my brother’s coffeehouse…and well, the rest is as you see it.”

Bobby nods at this, “I know what that’s like, boy. I made some real bad decisions after ‘Nam. Lost my wife ‘cause of it. Don’t you go losing him ‘cause of what happened to you, you hear?”

Castiel gives this a serious nod, and Bobby says, “Good.”

Bobby finishes his beer in silence before he tosses the bottle in the trash and wishes Cas a gruff goodnight. No more than a handful of minutes later, the back door creaks open and closes quietly, and Dean treads into the kitchen, solemn-faced. He sets his empty scotch glass in the kitchen sink and says, “C’mon, Cas, Need you.”

 _Need you_ are the words that lead Castiel to being naked and underneath Dean in his childhood bedroom. Dean still wears his underwear, but he rubs up against Cas and kisses him like he’s thirsty man in the middle of the desert and Cas is water. They keep quiet because Dean says the walls are paper thin, and Cas manages until Dean slicks up his own hand and reaches to slide his fingers inside himself.

When Dean pins Cas to the mattress and sinks down onto his cock, Cas has to smother the groan that rips out of him in one of the pillows, and even then, he thinks the entire house has heard him, anyway. Dean rides him in thorough, lazy rolls of his hips, chest and cheeks flushing as he works.

Castiel knows Dean’s close when he starts fucking back on him _hard_ , leaning down to lick along Cas’ throat and whisper dirty things against his ear. He comes over Cas’ abdomen from nothing but the feeling of Cas’ dick inside him, and doesn’t pause a beat – he keeps riding Cas until he comes too.

“Dean,” Cas says as they come down, “About your father –”

“Shut the fuck up, Cas,” Dean says.

So he does.


	15. The Shape of My Self Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past abuse. I swear I am not coming up with crappy things to do to Dean along the way, I just keep forgetting to tag them ahead of time.

**Chapter Track: Bear – Pacific Air**

**_The Shape of My Self Pity_ **

Dean wakes with an erection pressed to his lower back only to discover that Cas is naked and horny, and also passed out cold, mouth ajar. He snores softly, one arm flung back above his head. A sharp rush of affection pinches Dean, so abrupt that he sits and stumbles out of bed. His mouth tastes bitter.

Don’t get him wrong, he digs Cas. But he does not dig whatever Cas is stirring up beneath Dean’s ribs. And with Cas all sprawled out over the covers looking like one of those ads on porno sites for “PICS OF SEXY AMPUTEES” which Dean did not quite understand until Cas, anyway. And it’s not a fetish thing, either – Dean has those and this is not one of them – it’s that Cas’ scars, his missing limb…those things are a part of him. A part of a dude that Dean is really starting to get sweet on, and he does not know how to deal with that.

With family it’s easy, ‘cause they’re family. He can hug them and curse at them and laugh with them and acknowledge that he fucking loves them even when they drive him closer to an early grave, because they’re the people he’s loved since before he even knew the weight of the word _love_.

Dean and Lisa never exchanged ‘I love you,’ not even once. They fucked and laughed and spent time together. Hell, Dean even won her one of those giant-ass teddy bears when they dicked around at a carnival one summer. And he did love her, one on level. On the you’re-my-best-friend and also-you’re-totally-sexy level.

Now Cas, Cas is different. What a corny damn thing to think, he taunts himself with a sigh. But it’s true. Cas riles up shit that Dean didn’t even know he had in him anymore. He didn’t think there was anything left of him, really, not after all that crap that he’s put everybody through and that crap that he’s gotten himself in. But there is something left, and it makes his chest hurt like hell as he studies the man sprawled out asleep on that they shared, in Dean’s childhood bedroom.

It’s far from perfect. It’s not the ideal life he thinks his mom might have wanted for him, though if she were alive Dean would probably be a soft, good ol’ golden boy. If Mary lived, John would never have hit the bottle. Sam and Dean never would have gone to live with Bobby. Dean would never have felt responsible for every last hurt that his brother suffered.

But…he’s not sure that he would change it, now. He’s seen enough scifi movies (mostly with Cas) to know you shouldn’t fuck with a timeline. And he doesn’t believe in fate, so he doesn’t think it’s guaranteed that he would have met Castiel any other way than the one that he did.

This train of thought is goddamn depressing.

Dean crawls back onto the bed, his side of the mattress still warm, and presses a lazy, wet kiss to Cas’ stubbly jaw. Cas stirs and murmurs something, but doesn’t wake.

“Hey,” Dean says against his ear, and trails one hand to wrap around Cas’ erection.

At that, Cas opens his eyes. He smiles when he sees Dean an inch from his face, but the smile melts into a happy, way-too-loud moan, followed by a, “Jesus _Christ_ , Dean!” that probably has the entire household on alert.

Dean places his free hand over Cas’ mouth and hushes, “Shhh…” as he strokes up and down Cas’ cock, teasing over the head with his thumb, smearing the precome at the tip.

Cas comes quickly with a shout muffled behind Dean’s hand. His eyes shutter closed and Dean watches him as his panting fades into even breathing.

“Mornin’,” Dean finally says.

“Yes,” Cas chuckles, his voice all morning-deep and sex-wrecked, “It has been a very good morning, as a matter of fact.”

Dean stretches, popping kinks out of his neck before he suggests, “You wanna run? We didn’t get to yesterday.”

“Mm, morning runs,” Cas says, “What’s next? Yogurt commercials?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean says, but he laughs, and unzips Cas’ duffel to throw his running shorts at him, “You’re the one covered in come.”

“And whose fault is that?” Cas mutters, but he slides up to retrieve his prosthetic, rolling the sleeve over the scar tissue before he stands in the limb and it clicks into place. He wipes himself clean with his t-shirt from the day before and gives Dean a sidelong glance when Dean whistles lowly at the sight of his naked ass.

It _is_ an awesome ass.

No one is downstairs when they emerge in running clothes, for which Dean is secretly grateful. He knows Bobby’ll give him hell for being up early for nothing more enticing than exercise, which Dean has actually begun to enjoy. Jo would probably tease him for the shorts, as most of his life he has insisted that he’d never wear them. He still would never wear shorts outside of exercise necessities.

Dean and Cas circle around the area surrounding the salvage yard, running enough laps to soak their clothes with sweat and leave their lungs breathless and limbs buzzing.

Unfortunately, when they return, Sam sits in family room with his laptop open in front of him. He cocks a brow at their attire and asks, “Were you out _running_?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, tone defensive, “Gotta keep my butt in gear if I wanna get into the fire and rescue biz, smartass.”

Sam doesn’t seem to have expected this answer, and his eyes fall from Dean to Cas, to Cas’ leg. He ruffles a hand through his too-long hair and manages, “Oh. Good for you, I guess.”

“That’s damn straight, ‘good for me,’” Dean says, “C’mon Cas. Bath time.”

“Please keep it down,” Sam calls as they head for the stairs, exasperated.

“No promises,” Dean shoots back, and hears only Sam’s groan of frustration in return.

Since the Impala didn’t have enough room to accommodate Castiel’s shower chair (and even if it had, Cas’ pride would not have accommodated), Dean runs the water for a bath in the ancient tub in the upstairs bathroom. The room is neat and clean but old as dirt, with yellowed tile at their feet and peeling, striped wallpaper on all sides. The bathtub doesn’t have nearly enough room to house two grown men, so Dean helps Cas into the water and parks his bare ass on the toilet seat, watching as Cas submerges himself in the water and comes back up a moment later.

Cas pours a puddle of shampoo into his hand and starts lathering up his dark hair. This shouldn’t be what makes Dean say, “I already told you about my dad’s car crash, but there’s some other crap, too,” but he’s – not at ease, exactly, but something close to that. He and Cas are both buck naked and there’s nothing sexual at all about it, which should be weird as all get-out, but isn’t.

In the tub, the bathwater stills as Cas pauses his scrubbing and looks at Dean expectantly.

Dean looks at his hands instead of Cas. He doesn’t like dredging up this bullshit, but Cas is here in his childhood home, and he deserves to know at least the abridged version of its history. He knows Cas and Bobby watched him at his dad’s grave last night. Dean’ll probably go sit out there again tonight, and maybe the next night after that. He’ll sit in front of his dad’s grave with a cigarette and a glass of scotch until he figures out what to say to the guy.

And beyond that, Cas knows more than Dean has ever let on to Bobby, or Sam, or Ellen or Jo. Cas knows about the night in the red pickup.

“Look, I don’t want to take a shit on my dad because I loved him, okay?” Dean goes on, “Sam loved him too, but not in the same way, I guess. Sometimes Sammy really hated dad, and I just – I never did, even with everything that happened. Maybe it’s ‘cause I remember our mom and how dad was before she kicked it. Dunno.

“Point is, my dad was a real piece a’ work. He drowned his grief in Jack, and I can’t say I blame him. I do blame him for not taking care of us. You know he told me to man up when I cried on fifth birthday and we didn’t celebrate? Told me life wasn’t fair, and men didn’t cry. That’s fucked up, dude.

“And… Christ. Promise you won’t say any of what I tell you to Bobby or Sam, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas says, quiet. He rubs a bar of soap over his skin, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean, not even for a moment.

“Dad roughed me up sometimes,” Dean says, and even to him his voice sounds weak, hardly above the threshold of hearing as he explains, “Never when he was sober. Most times he didn’t remember it afterward and I just – I didn’t have the balls to say anything to him. Just got him his coffee and his aspirin like a good boy, and he’d ask me how I got the bruises on my arms and I’d say I fell off my bike or Sam and I got in a wrestling match or I rolled off the bunk, or whatever.

“The worst time, though, was when Sammy was ten. Dad took off to a bar and Sam was pissed, so he ran off. I spent hours looking for him, but my dad got home before Sam and…that was my one job, was taking care of Sam. Still is. Always will be. Dad beat the living daylights outta me and broke my wrist. I didn’t go to the hospital ‘til I found Sam. He was outside the library. I lied and said I jumped off a fence, and I walked myself to the hospital and lied and said the same thing. I got pretty good at lying for my dad.”

“Dean,” Cas says, and says only that.

“And sometimes I’m so – so goddamn _angry_ at him, you know, Cas? Sometimes all I can think is that he shouldn’t have done that crap. But most times I’m just mad at myself ‘cause I feel like I could’ve done better. Done better for him and for Sam,” Dean concludes.

Thank God for Bobby, ‘cause without Bobby, Dean knows his dad would’ve died much, much sooner. Sam would have eaten much less, and Dean would have been spread out in a lot more red pickups.

For a long while, Cas doesn’t say anything. He studies Dean with careful eyes, and only after Dean shifts his gaze from his feet to Cas’ face does he finally speak. He enunciates each word cautiously, “You loved your father.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He did. God, he loved dad. He cherished those rare moments of lucidity, when John took him out shooting, or let Dean work on a car with him, or when they’d just sit and watch trash TV and say nothing at all. Bobby was much better at being Dean’s dad, but that didn’t change Dean’s blood. John was where he came from, and that meant a lot.

“Sometimes we love people that hurt us,” Cas goes on, “I still love my brothers, though they abhor my ‘lifestyle,’ or however they term it. They were cruel, and your dad was cruel, but we love them anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, and then says again, “Yeah,” more in agreement, and then, “Thanks, Cas.”

And now Dean’s cut open and raw, all his insides spread out like a body on autopsy table, his organs arranged in bowls for examination. His head pounds and adrenaline and fury beat through his veins. This is why he never wants to discuss it. When Dean discusses John he turns into him, a grief-ridden sack of shit that itches to grab the nearest bottle of liquor.

“Mm,” Cas expresses, breaking Dean from his thoughts, “Perhaps after you shower I can make you feel better.”

Or sex. Sex helps too. Sex with Cas especially.

So Dean stands and help lift Cas from the tub. The lifting he’s been doing helps with this – holding Cas in his arms before he deposits him on the toilet seat and passes him a towel.

Through ugly floral shower curtain, Dean sees Cas’ shadow dry his skin and reattach his prosthetic. He reclines on the toilet while Dean washes, and doesn’t say anything. He hums something though. Probably Vera Lynn.

When Dean steps out he makes quick work of drying off, because he started thinking of all the dirty things he could be doing to Cas, and now he’s hard as a rock and has to tuck his erection under a knot of towel so it’s not too obvious when they cross the hallway.

Jo still wrinkles her nose at them when they pad across the floorboards. Dean makes a face back.

As soon as the bedroom door swings closed behind them, Dean intends to take control, but Cas commandeers it from him. He locks the door, retrieves their lube and throws it at him and orders, “I’d like you to fuck me.”

“Yes, sir,” is all that Dean can think to say.

Castiel lets his towel drop onto the floor and turns around. He braces himself against the wall, each hand splayed out on either side of a poster of a chick in a bikini that is suddenly not nearly as hot with a guy spread open in front of her. Dean casts away his towel and for a second, just stares. Cas’ wings are shaking on his back as he waits, his breath soft but audible. Dean steps forward and cups Cas’ ass in his hands, stroking over the skin with his thumbs, letting his nails bite into them when Cas makes a noise.

“You’re gonna have to be quiet,” Dean says, “Can you be quiet?”

Cas nods hard.

Dean slicks his fingers, eager, and runs the first along the cleft of Cas’ ass. Cas shivers, but stays silent. Jesus, that silence is doing things to Dean. With a huff of breath, he slides one finger inside Cas, who lets out a shuddering breath, but otherwise does not react.

Dean smells a challenge.

He starts out slow, sliding the finger down inside him as far as it will go, and pulls back just as gradually. He can feel Cas tremble. Dean repeats the motion again and again, slow and teasing, before he crooks his finger just right and Cas goes still frickin’ _whimpers_. It’s such a soft noise but Christ, it makes Dean shiver and want. He’ll bury himself in Cas and he’ll forget about everything. He’ll fuck him raw and the past will disappear. When he’s with Cas, that’s all there is – just the two of them together in the whole universe. Dean doesn’t have to think about anything else.

When Dean presses a second slick finger inside Cas to join the first, Cas starts breathing hard through his nostrils and rocks back onto them.

Dean leans over him and kisses the back of Cas’ neck. He smells like the plain old ivory soap that Bobby keeps the house stocked up with.

“You need my fingers, don’t you, angel?” Dean murmurs against his ear.

Cas nods.

“You want more?”

Cas nods again.

The sight of Castiel taking three thick fingers inside him almost undoes Dean completely. Cas cants back his hips and curls one hand into a fist against the wall. He doesn’t make a sound aside from heavy breathing, though his knuckles have turned white on his fisted hand.

“Dean,” he says. A plea.

“What do you need, angel? I wanna hear you say it,” Dean says.

The ink feathers on Cas’ back ripple as he rolls his shoulders. He says, “I need you.”

“You need me to what?” Dean asks.

“Need you to _fuck me already_ ,” Cas snaps.

“Christ,” Dean groans. He withdraws his hand from Cas’ body and coats his cock with lube. He knows Cas is waiting for Dean to take him from behind, but that’s not what Dean wants. He grips Cas’ shoulder and pulls him around so they’re looking at each other. He presses Cas into the wall, lifts his bad leg, and with a hard kiss, thrusts inside him.

He feels fucking awesome. Cas is all tight heat and pleasured sighs. He’s red-faced from trying not to be noisy, which is his natural state during sex. Dean heaves Cas up by the ass, commands, “Wrap your legs around me,” and fucks up into him against the wall.

Cas obeys and coils his legs around Dean. Cool metal and flesh grind against Dean’s back with each drive upward into Cas. He knows when he hits Cas’ prostate because Cas falls forward and smothers world’s loudest moan into the meat of Dean’s shoulder. He bites down into the skin and Dean grunts.

“Shit,” he says, a perfect amount of pain blooming through him.

Cas kisses over the bite and sucks on Dean’s neck. He kisses everywhere and buries noises against Dean’s damp skin. His hands rake from Dean’s back into his hair, where they tug him forward into a hard, hot kiss, Cas’ tongue stroking over Dean’s as Dean pins Cas and pistons into him.

With each thrust and pull back, Dean feels his anger chip away. Heat and pleasure take over, replacing the cold feeling of memory that overcame him in the bathroom. Whatever else he lacked in life he has this, this man biting and clawing at him, kissing Dean while he gets fucked.

“God,” Dean groans, “Jesus. Fuck. I’m close, angel.”

At this declaration, Cas clenches around Dean’s cock, and Dean is done. He muffles his shout in Cas’ neck and comes hard. His mind hazy with sensation, he only barely registers that Cas is still erect, his cock nestled between their sweaty bodies. Dean huffs and releases Cas, letting his feet touch the ground before Dean sinks to his knees and swallows Cas down.

A surprised noise tears from Cas mouth, and he slaps his own hand over it.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Dean pulls off only to say, “Don’t be sorry, angel,” before he grips Cas’ hips in both hands, hollows his cheeks and takes him down into his throat. Cas is gentle with Dean’s mouth, using it up in little, dirty thrusts punctuated by sound behind the fingers over his mouth.

When he comes, he curses, and moves his hand from his lips to grab fistfuls of Dean’s hair, manhandling Dean into letting come slide down his throat.

Dean’s jaw is sore when he withdraws. His whole body is sore. His arms are sore from pinning Cas’ weight against the wall. His legs are sore from their early run. And his chest is sore from everything he’s said and done today, from his confession about his father, to his early-morning realization that Cas _means something_ , and that Dean is afraid to know what that something is.

He’s exhausted when Cas’ cock slides from his mouth, and Cas can see it.

“Maybe you should nap,” Cas suggests and smooths a hand through Dean’s hair, right where he just gripped it, and Dean’s scalp still tingles with pinpricks of lovely pain.

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely, “Okay.”

Sammy’s birthday isn’t until tomorrow, after all. They’ve still got time for the planning and party shopping and all that good shit. Dean rises on shaking legs and kisses Cas, who laughs and tells him he tastes like come and to get some sleep.

Dean bumbles to the bed and collapses face first into the pillow. He’s so tired that he doesn’t remember to pull up the covers, though he feels steady, warm hands do it for him some time later.

**X**

Castiel cleans himself up and dresses in soft jeans and a plain t-shirt that he throws one of Dean’s plaid shirts over, because it smells like him. His ass is sore, but a pleasant kind of sore, as he gingerly makes his way downstairs with visions of coffee in his mind. Sam still sits on the sofa in the family room, though his laptop now sits closed on the floor beside his feet, and Jessica sits with her legs crisscrossing his, feminine fingers raking through his long hair.

Cas waves and Sam waves back, a knowing look on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

Jo whistles when sidles awkwardly into the kitchen. He tries not to limp as he searches for a coffee maker, but fails spectacularly. Jo snorts and says, “He really did a number on you, man.”

Cas turns to eye her and says, “He had a rough morning. And night.”

Jo rolls her eyes and says, “Jeez, I knew we were rowdy, but I didn’t know we were that bad.”

“He _is_ happy to see you,” Cas defends, “Whether or not he says so. It’s more – well, it’s his father. Dean rarely mentioned him at all and then, he um. He told me about many things this morning and it – it took a toll on him.”

The irritation on Jo’s face gives way to sympathy and she says, “Oh.”

Cas doesn’t know what to make of Jo. She has long blond hair and doe-eyes, and she’s also tough as nails. She hammered back far more alcohol last night than Castiel would ever dare, and seems this morning not to have felt it at all.

“I think I like you,” she says, and slides her boots off of the kitchen table to open a cabinet above Cas and pull down a stocky can of Folgers.

Cas manages a gentle smile and replies, “I think I like you, too.”

**X**

Dean wakes feeling like crap, dresses feeling like crap, and walks downstairs feeling like crap to see Sam and Jess and Jo playing cards around the kitchen table all with mugs of tea, but no Ellen, Bobby or Cas.

“They’re outside,” Sam offers, the moment that he sees Dean’s haggard and bewildered face, “I think Bobby and Cas are exchanging shooting tips.”

“Christ,” Dean mutters, and ducks out of the back door. He winds his way through the car parts and debris to the open area behind Bobby’s place. When he and Sam were little, this is where Bobby taught them to shoot, using pyramids of empty beer cans and targets spray-painted on plywood. All of those things are still here, set up in the tall grass. A wave of weird nostalgia washes over Dean like lukewarm bathwater. Typically childhood memories make him cold and angry, but not this. Not here.

When he looks at Bobby and Cas and Ellen all laughing together, triplet rifles in each of their grips, a smile curls onto his lips.

Cas spots him first and waves him over. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder and asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a train. Emotionally,” Dean responds, and runs a hand through his hair. The smell of gunpowder and growing things overwhelms the air as a breeze rustles the plaid shirt Cas is wearing. Dean’s plaid. He snorts a little at that. It’s a mark of the clan. That and the firearm in his grip.

“You’ll be all right, boy,” Bobby says, and claps a hand on Dean’s back, and then offers him the rifle from his hands, “Now you gonna shoot, or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

Dean laughs and snatches up the gun. He hasn’t been shooting in a while. Sometimes the mood has struck over the course of the years, but it always seemed like a waste of cash to get his aggression out at a range, when he used to be able to take to the back of Bobby’s house whenever he needed it, free of charge.

Dean adjusts his grip, aims, and shoots at the dinged-up Bud Light can at the top of one of the can structures. It rockets across the field.

Cas casts a glance over at him and then lifts his own rifle. He aims and shoots three times: one pull of the trigger for each of the three cans nestled below the one that Dean blew away. When he looks back to Dean, there’s a smirk on his face.

“Oh, it’s on, hot shot,” Dean says.

They shoot together for the better part of forty five minutes, getting into the swing of healthy competition until Dean at last concedes defeat…this time. He’s rusty now, but after a little more practice, he’ll kick Cas’ butt at target practice.

“I’m sure you will,” Cas says, and it’s so dry that Dean almost thanks him before he realizes that he’s being teased and throws a glare in Cas’ direction.

After they clean up and Ellen jumps into making dinner, Dean and Cas retreat to the Impala to purchase birthday supplies for Sam’s day tomorrow. Dean already has Sam’s present, but they need everything else – the plates, the napkins, the humiliating pointy party hats that Dean _will_ make his brother wear, and the cake.

There’s a small grocery joint a short five minutes from Bobby’s place. Before Dean could drive, he and Sammy walked there to treat themselves to sodas and bags of sweets, usually after Dean had a good night at the truck stop just at the edge of town. They’d split the goods in the parking lot until they were scolded for loitering by police officers, at which point they’d walk to the nearby elementary school and finish their snacks on the swing set.

That was a good time in Dean’s life. Sure, he wasn’t full of wide-eyed innocence. He’d already turned his fair share of tricks and got his ass kicked by his dad. But Sammy was happy because they were in one place and Bobby was good about putting food in their bellies and letting them watch cartoons, sometimes even when there was a football game on.

Dean parks the Impala in front of the grocery store and grabs a shopping cart. He seizes the opportunity to mount the back edge and roll into the store with a shout of, “Awesome!” before he gets scolded by an employee and apologizes sheepishly for riding the cart.

They stop for the cake first because they have to order it. Dean wants to order one that reads “Happy Birthday Bitch” but apparently is not allowed to do that according to Cas, so he orders a standard “Happy Birthday Sam” instead, to be picked up the following morning.

Cas remains quiet while Dean does the bulk of the food shopping, knocking chips and salsa and sodas and beer into his shopping cart. When they round on the party aisle, a feminine voice calls, “Dean? Dean Winchester?”

It’s Lisa fucking Braeden.

And damn if she doesn’t look just as good as she did in high school. She’s slender and dark-haired and smiling at him like he never took off for years. Only difference is a few more lines on her face, and a boy standing in front of her, assessing Dean as though he thinks he might be a threat.

“Hey,” Dean manages and his eyes flick down to the kid, “Um…”

She laughs, “This is Ben. You can relax, Dean, he isn’t yours,” her eyes shift to Cas, “Who’s this?”

“Uh, this is my Cas. I mean. This is Cas. He’s my – what are we, dude?” Dean asks.

Cas makes a face and shrugs before he ventures, “…Significant others?”

Dean scowls, “Man, that sounds fruity.”

“Partners, then?” Cas says, “I like that better than boyfriends.”

“Dude, no boyfriends. Ever,” Dean says, “Partners is okay, I guess,” and then returns his attention to Lisa, “There’s your answer.”

Dean doesn’t know what he expects, but when Lisa smiles warmly at Cas and shakes his hand, an odd relief nudges at his gut. Lisa was a lot of things to him way back when – his best friend, his friend-with-benefits, Sam’s sometimes-babysitter – and sure, she knew he swung both ways, but he’d never dated a dude by the time he was with her, only slept with them for money.

“Haven’t seen you around town in years,” she remarks.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees lamely, “I’m back for Sammy’s birthday.”

“Oh yeah?” Lisa asks, “Man, he must be big now. What’s he, turning nineteen?”

“Twenty, actually,” Dean says. Weird. No more teenaged brother.

Cas shifts beside Dean to pull down a package of party-themed paper plates from one of the higher shelves in the aisle. As he does, Ben asks, “How come you walk funny?”

“Benjamin,” Lisa says.

But Cas interrupts, “That’s all right,” and ducks down to Ben’s level to explain, “I was in the army and I got sent to fight overseas.” He was actually a translator, Dean knows, not technically meant for combat though he was trained. Cas rolls up the right leg of his loose-fitting jeans and lets Ben touch his prosthetic.  

Ben feels along the limb, entranced, and then stands up and announces, “That’s _so cool_. You’re like – like a robot man from outerspace that fights aliens and, uh alien zombies! With guns for hands! Pew pew!” And quick as a whip, Ben takes off down the aisle with his stubby fingers formed into the shape of two guns.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Lisa says with a breathless little smile, “It was good to see you, Dean. And nice to meet you, Cas.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Cas says, though by then, Lisa is already gone.

Dean tugs Cas into a lazy, one-armed hug and mutters in his ear, “Ain’t the only reason you’re walkin’ funny,” which earns him a swat and a glare.

“Fortunate for you that you’re so pretty,” Cas shoots back.

Dean stares and then barks out a hoot of laughter, reaching up to muss Cas’ hair. This fuckin’ guy. Cas. His partner… or whatever they just decided to be.

After paying for the party paraphernalia, Dean and Castiel return to Bobby’s. When Jo asks why they’re smiling so stupidly, neither of them has a good answer to give.

**X**

That night, after good booze and good laughs, Dean steps outside. It’s a warm night, and though it’s still spring there’s the promise of summer in the air. Of bug bites and barbeques, open windows and air conditioning, sweat between the shoulder blades and beer cold from the cooler. John once said that Mary loved summer.

Dean walks between old frames of cars and a mostly-rusted bumper. He lowers himself onto the flat stone positioned in front of his dad’s grave and lights a cigarette. When he blows out a cloud of smoke, he says, “Bet mom would’ve liked this, huh? Family, just bein’ together. Probably would’ve made potato salad or Jell-o, something like that. Yeah, I bet she would have have.”

Another stream of cigarette smoke marks the night air. Dean didn’t say anything when he sat out here yesterday. He stared at John’s grave and he thought about it. He thought about being angry, and then he thought about being sad. He thought that his dad would be disappointed to see the Impala faded and scratched up. He wondered what his dad would think of Cas.

“You think mom would’ve liked Cas?” he asks the crude headstone, “Guess there’s no way to know. I think she would, though. Maybe you would’ve, too. He’s ex-army. Likes to read. Missing a leg. He’s a few screws short of a workbench, but that’s all right. I am too. We decided to call ourselves ‘partners,’ today, whatever the hell that means. Means, we’re exclusive, I guess. I mean. I knew we were, but. This makes it paper-official, I think.”

“Well,” Dean corrects, “Not married paper. I don’t even know if that’s legal around here.”

“Not here.”

Dean jerks around and sees Sam standing behind him. His brother sits on the soft ground beside him, beer in hand, and says, “Not Kansas, either. Colorado’s got civil unions if you want to move next door, though.”

“How long were you standing there?” Dean finally asks.

“Long enough,” answers Sam, and then, more tentatively, “Do you miss him?” He looks over at the slab of stone.

“Sometimes,” Dean says, “Most times I’m just pissed at him.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “Me too.”

For several minutes they sit at their father’s grave in silence, Sam nursing his cheap beer, and Dean smoking down his cheap cigarette. When he finishes, he smothers the butt under the rubber sole of his work boot, but doesn’t move from his place at John’s grave.

And then a weight slides across Dean’s shoulders. Dean looks over – Sam has his arm draped over him. When he sees Dean looking, he gives his arm a squeeze. They remain like that until the digital watch around Sam’s wrist beeps shrilly. Dean looks over at the black numbers on the green-glowing screen.

Midnight.

“Happy birthday, Sammy.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

**X**

Sam’s birthday celebration goes off without a hitch.

Dean wakes early and makes the entire household a breakfast of buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, and crispy bacon. Sam expresses appreciation, but says he doesn’t want to do much, just wants to spend the day together. They end up playing card games until afternoon, when they bum around town and wind up at Harvelle’s Roadhouse for good beer and good music, and so Ellen can hug Sam on his birthday.

When they return home, Dean and Bobby cook up dinner while the others watch some dopey indie flick that Sam likes in the family room.

Dean makes Sam wear a stupid, pointy birthday hat, but he’s good-humored about it and no one can help but laugh when it falls off of his head and into his birthday cake right after he blows the candles out.

His gift feels stupid when Sam starts to rip off the newspaper around it. It’s not a lot, just a picture from Sam and Jess’ visit in January, all of them circled around one of the tables in the back of Trickster, minus Gabriel, who was the one behind the camera. Dean looks a little rough around the edges, still, but he’s smiling, and so is everyone else. It’s a nice picture, he thinks.

He made the frame himself, out of necessity to do something with his hands. When he lived here in Sioux Falls he used to whittle all the time, but lost touch with the hobby after he took off and settled in Lawrence. He carved each side of the frame individually and attached them with wood glue before he stained it. The work is a little sloppy, but to the untrained eye he has to admit that it looks kind of nice.

“Dean,” Sam says, when he pulls the last of the newspaper away, “It’s great, dude. It’s really fucking great.”

At the end of the day, Dean goes to bed with a full stomach and a full heart, so tired that all he manages to do is kiss the back of Cas’ neck before he zonks out.

**X**

It’s a sad morning two days later, when Dean and Castiel have their things packed into the back of the Impala, and it’s time to head home to Kansas. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bummed out about leaving his old home, but – he kind of has a new place to be in Lawrence.

Jo loops scarves around their necks and screws hats onto their heads, even though it’s about eighty degrees and they’ll die of heatstroke wearing her knitwear. Dean’s goodbye gifts are dark green and Cas’ dark blue, the reason for which is, Jo explains, “They match your eyes.”

Dean snorts but he’s grateful. He still feels like an ass for dumping Jo’s earlier creations for him in a charity bin at some anonymous church in Lawrence. It’s good to have new things to replace them. Plus they smell like her perfume, a light, floral scent that will forever remind him of his place in Sioux Falls. Even though he knows that he’ll be back this time around, it’s still good to carry a memento back with him.

Ellen hugs Dean hard and makes him swear on the Bible that he’ll return home again, and this “won’t be the last time I see your sorry face.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean promises, and means it.

Bobby holds him hard and longer than any of the others, and makes Dean promise three times out loud to “stop being such a fuckin’ idjit and visit once in a goddamn blue moon.” He says something to Cas, too, but Dean isn’t close enough to hear it.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, when he pulls out of their lung-smothering hug, “I wanted to talk to you, about your charges.”

Great. Warm, fuzzy, chick flick feelings gone.

“Dude, come on, do we have to?” Dean complains.

Sam ignores this and says, “I want to represent you. Look, I know I’m only an undergrad and I’m not really, really good yet, but I think I can get you out of this. Especially the assault charge, ‘cause that’s self-defense and it’s total bullshit that they charged you in the first place. And okay, I'll need a supervising attorney 'cause I can't do it by myself yet, but it won't be that bad. So, uh, what do you say?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. On one hand, having any kind of lawyer is probably a good idea, and even if Sam isn’t as trained as he could be, Dean knows Sam is a genius and a hard worker…but this also means that he’d probably have to let Sam dredge every last bit of bullshit he’s gotten into, just in case. Alastair’s a rich man, and even though this case is criminal and not civil, Dean’s pissed the guy off enough that he could get himself into some deep shit.

He bites his lip and tastes blood before he concedes, “Okay.”

Sam grins, “Awesome. I promise I’ll be the best defense ever.”

“I know you will, Sammy,” Dean says, and they hug again, just for good measure.

When Cas and Dean at last climb into the Impala and start her up, Dean feels foggy. There’s a sense of loss in seeing Bobby’s place disappear behind him in the rearview mirror, his family all waving goodbye until he turns the corner, and they disappear. But, he also feels lighter. Too much has happened in very few days, and he’s done a lot of purging of crap he was keeping pummeled down inside.

Beside him, Cas removes his prosthetic in preparation for the long drive ahead, and pulls his freaking dinosaur coloring book into his lap. It shouldn’t be so fucking endearing to watch a grown man try to color in a moving car, but belts of warmth press down on Dean’s chest as he watches. It doesn’t take long for Cas to fall asleep to the melodic sounds of Zeppelin, and the rocking of the car on the highway.

**X**

They don’t reach Lawrence until late afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky, and the heat is at its peak of the day. Cas reattaches his prosthetic as they roll into the parking lot in front of Gabriel’s apartment complex and hums to Dean, “Home sweet home.”

They smell like road weariness and Bobby’s ivory soap, and as Dean lifts both of their duffels from the trunk of his baby, he can’t wait to get up the stairs and into the bed that smells like _them_. He found himself thinking of that bed, or sometimes the couch, and even of Gabriel and Gabriel’s cooking while in Sioux Falls – not because his old home or is family is inadequate, but because, well. He was kinda homesick.

He’s never saying that out loud, though.

Only, when Cas and Dean saunter out of the elevator on sleepy legs and open the apartment, there’s somebody there. It isn’t Gabriel. He’s older than Gabe, close to his forties or perhaps in the early years of them, with dark hair and dark eyes. When Dean glances over at Castiel, it’s clear that they know each other.

It’s even clearer when Cas clears his throat and says, “Hello, Michael.”


	16. You Wake Up Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is a short-ish chapter for two reasons a) my public speaking homework and b) it didn't seem right to end it anyplace else.
> 
> THAT BEING SAID. Big warnings for this chapter for PTSD/flashbacks, alcohol as a coping mechanism, and some homophobia from Michael.
> 
> Also, I keep forgetting to mention this but I do have an SPN blog if anybody is interested (I also talk about writing fic on it occasionally so if I ever had to post a chapter late or if you want to address any issues with me there's a good place): scarlettofletters.tumblr.com.
> 
> ALSO HOLY CRAP. I'm really mega excited because I best friend and I may or may not (we did) have blown $700 each on gold packages for Vancouver Con in August 2014 and I THINK YOU'LL ALL UNDERSTAND MY EXCITEMENT BECAUSE I GET TO MEET ALL THE GUYS. Also I've never been to Canada and that's exciting haha.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Track: DJ, DJ – Transplants**

**_You Wake Up Dead_ **

The jerk to step in front of Dean is an instinctive move, and a move that Castiel should not have made. It draws Michael’s attention immediately to him. A frown settles on Michael’s face, the same frown Castiel remembers when he lost a game of chess, or our-father-would-be-so-disappointed. He stands from his place in Gabriel’s favorite chair. He saunters to them and comes to a stop a mere foot away, so close that Castiel can smell his expensive cologne and the aroma of dry cleaning on his suit.

“So, this is the infamous whore,” he says, his dark eyes falling to Dean.

Cas can feel Dean stiffen behind him, and a roaring blaze of anger shoots through him.

“What are you doing here?” Cas asks.

“I keep tabs on the local VA,” Michael says, examining his fingernails as though the conversation bores him, as though he wasn’t the one that broke into his brothers’ apartment, as though he didn’t disown Castiel on their father’s behalf when Cas was in a fucking warzone. Literally. Michael sighs and goes on, “It pleases me to see that you elected to get counseling. But I’m not certain why you didn’t tell your family of your honors.”

The Purple Hearts.

Is that what this is about? When Michael, Lucifer and Raphael worked through their respective military careers, none of them ever suffered injuries. Michael worked as a medic and Raphael to this day holds an office position in the US Air Force. Lucifer was deployed to Iraq for two separate tours, but never suffered so much as a bump on the head. The odds said that Castiel would be safe too, but Cas has never been one to put stock in luck.

“I did tell my family,” Cas is amazed that he manages to keep his voice level and even, and his chin high. Not long ago, Michael’s stare would set Cas’ eyes to the floor and cause his shoulders to slump. But not now, not after all that has happened. He says, heart heavy as a stone inside his chest, “I told Gabriel and Anna.”

“Yes, Gabriel. That was interesting to learn, that you took our names out of your emergency contact information,” Michael says.

“I fail to see how that possibly could have been a _surprise_ ,” Cas spits, fury returned, “I told you that I am homosexual and you told me I was no longer welcome to speak to any of  our father’s acknowledged children.”

“Cas, your…”

“Orientation,” Cas supplies tartly, and folds his arms over his chest.

“ _Orientation_ can be overlooked,” Michael continues, “In light of your honors.”

“I don’t want my sexuality to be overlooked. I want it to be acknowledged,” Cas says.

Michael just wants a war hero in the family, Cas realizes. He wants the prestige and bragging rights (and none of the accompanying pain) of an amputee brother awarded with two Purple Hearts. He wants to use Cas a party trick, a topic of conversation.

“Castiel,” Michael says, as though speaking to a child.

It’s the tone that forces the overflow.

“Fuck you,” Cas says, “Fuck you! I am not a child. I am thirty one, I am a disabled veteran, and I am in a committed relationship with a man. I have made my decisions. Perhaps they once were influenced by you, but I won’t have it any longer. You say I’m not welcome in the family, and now I am? Fuck you. You’re not welcome here. This is my family, the one that I chose, and you have not been invited to join us.”

“Be reasonable,” Michael says, without a flinch, “You’re acting like a child. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Do I –” Cas starts. Blood rushes through his veins like rapids. His heart pumps so heard he can hear his blood in his ears. His cheeks color with anger, and he clenches his fists, “Do I hear myself? Yes, Michael, I hear myself. For the first time in my life. I never once disobeyed. I followed each and every order thrown at me, because family is important. But the moment – the very instant that I acknowledge a piece of myself that belongs wholly to me, the _instant_ – I’m thrown away like trash. Now you want me, and for what? As a decoration? A feather in your cap? ‘Oh, have you met my disabled brother? Poor thing, we tossed him on his ass when we found out he was gay.’”

Cas picks up the nearest object – a mug with Wolverine on it – and hurls it at Michael. He misses, and the mug, and the cold coffee at the bottom of it, shatter and splatter across the carpet.

“You have fallen very far,” Michael says, voice now tight. Good. Castiel wants to get to him. He wants to wipe that look off of Michael’s stupid face, the smug satisfaction and doubtless belief that’s he’s right and Castiel is a poor soul that needs his good faith. He goes on, “You…you live in sin, with a man that sleeps with other men for money, Castiel. How far must you go to prove yourself to us?”

“Prove myself to – go fuck yourself, Michael!” Cas is shouting now, red-in-the-face yelling at the top of his lungs, “Insult me, fine. I’ve handled your belittlement for a very long time, but do _not_ insult Dean. You’ve been handed everything. You were handed your life and your wealth and you’ve never worked a damn day in your life. Dean has suffered more than you ever will, and he’s a better man, a far more righteous man than you can ever hope to be.”

Castiel launches himself at Michael and slams him back into the coffee table. Michael’s head cracks against the edge with a bang and at last he lets out a shout, an uncontrolled noise of rage that Castiel wanted out of him from the very beginning.

“You preach kindness and love but you’re a callous, shallow asshole,” Cas grunts, and throws a punch at Michael’s face. Michael catches his fist and throws him back. Castiel is strong and trained, but rusty, and he’s surprised when Michael rears up and tosses Cas onto his back on the carpet.

Michael closes steel fingers around his throat, bruising skin and cutting off air. His well-combed hair is wild now, dark eyes wide and furious.

“You are wrong,” he hisses, “You are disobedient, ungrateful and you are filthy. Father would be ashamed –”

The click of a gun being primed sounds.

“Get out,” Dean says.

Michael’s grip lifts from Cas’ throat, and Cas gasps for air. He sits up, dizzy, and sees Dean above them with a pistol in his hand, and a frigid fierceness in his face like Cas has never seen. His eyes are alight with anger, freezing anger, and his lips are in a cold, flat line.

“You, whore, do not tell me –”

Dean pulls the trigger.

A _BANG_ sounds, but Michael is unhurt, only barbarian-eyed and sweating. The bullet burrows in the carpet, inches from Michael’s hand.

“Get. Out,” Dean says, even more acid this time, even more sure.

“You do not have the right,” Michael insists, but his sounds weaker, more shaken.

“I have every right,” Dean barks out, “You waltz in here like you own the goddamn place and you take a shit on him, try to _use_ him after everything he’s been through. You know I used to turn tricks? Well, I bet you know all the other crap, too. I will pull this trigger again, and it will hurt. Do you understand me?”

“You’re not a murderer,” Michael spits, “You’re a petty thief and a prostitute.”

Dean points the gun directly at Michael’s head, “You wanna fuckin’ test that theory?”

Cas is trapped between the sound of the gun and the sounds of the voices of his brother and his partner. Visions of fire and pain dance before his eyes, ghost agony thrums in the leg that isn’t there. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and tries to make it stop. Tries to use the strategies that Chuck taught him. Cas squeezes Gabriel’s carpet in between his fingers to ground himself. It smells like gunfire in here, but it also smells like Gabriel ordered pizza last night and forgot to put it away, as he tends to do.

When Cas opens his eyes, he hoarsely says, “Stop. Dean, stop it.”

He stands on shaking legs and catches himself against Gabriel’s sound system, “Michael, leave. Immediately.”

“Castiel,” Michael says.

“I will let him shoot you and we will call it self-defense if you do not get out of my apartment this second,” Cas growls.

Michael pushes himself up at that and runs his hands through his dark and graying hair. He strides to the door of the apartment but pauses at it and looks Cas straight in the eye, “As I recall, the apartment belongs to Gabriel. Neither of you own it and it is not your home.”

With those words hanging heavy in the air, Michael leaves, slamming the door behind him.

A beat and a breath later, Cas rounds on Dean and demands, “What were you thinking?”

“Me?” Dean says, “The dickhead had his hands around your throat! I improvised.”

“You have a gun. A gun!” Cas cries, “You threatened to kill him. What if Michael calls the police? What if you get arrested for that?”

“I protect my own, Cas,” Dean replies, “If the cops get involved, I’ll just tell them the truth.”

“It was reckless,” Cas insists, unable to understand why Dean cannot see the weight of his actions, “Reckless and stupid. How do you not know better? I expect better of you!”

Castiel ignores the crumpled expression on Dean’s face. Michael lives on borrowed power – the money inherited from their father, his congenital handsomeness and privileged race, gender and sexuality – and that power, however not his own, is power nonetheless. In his middle age, the power’s ripened. Cas does not know if Michael will choose to wield it, but whether or not he does, Dean acted without thought. Who would believe two damaged, off-kilter homosexual men over the powerhouse that is his brother? Very few people, indeed.

He can’t be here right now. The air in the apartment is suffocating, and at the smell of gun smoke Cas keeps oscillating between the seriousness of his reality and the trauma of his past. He needs air, away from Dean, and alcohol to drown the dregs of the flashback in.

Vaguely, behind him, Castiel hears Dean calling for him. He ignores him and slams the apartment door behind him. He’s still tired from the long drive down from Sioux Falls, and he can feel the promise of rain in his bad leg. He still forces himself to walk straight and into the elevator, where he slouches against the wall and ignores the stare of the teenage boy already inside.

When he makes it outside, he doesn’t know where to go. He can’t drive, and with his leg bothering him, he won’t be able to walk very far. Pathetic.

Castiel makes it about half a block before he has to lean against the brick exterior of the local convenience store, breathing hard and leg flaring with pain. He can’t tell if the pain is real or ghost-pain, the apparition of Castiel dragging men out of danger with his body rendered next-to-useless.

He needs Elysium. At his worst the club always brought him much needed comfort. He could drown the smells of explosives and charred flesh in those of latex and alcohol and human sweat. He jerks himself away from the wall of the convenience store and makes himself walk. It’s only a few blocks, but in his current state, that may as well be miles.

As he stumbles along, he knows people are staring. He can feel their eyes like hundreds of tiny needles pricking into his back and his face and his leg. One woman grabs the hand of her son and yanks him away, as far as they can get from Castiel on the small expanse of sidewalk. He wishes he could be angry at her for doing so, but he isn’t. He’s Frankenstein’s monster right now – in the glass of a storefront, he sees purple bruises on his neck and shadows hanging under his eyes almost as dark. And no matter how hard he tries, he isn’t walking right.

By the time that he reaches Elysium, his leg is about as useful as a lead weight hanging from his pelvis, and the sun has sunk over the crest of the street. At least Castiel fits in here, in the slummy part of town. He supposes many of the homeless people that drift from place to place are veterans, like him. If he didn’t have Gabriel or Anna, he doesn’t doubt that he would be one of them.

Elysium is quieter than usual when he pushes his way inside. Cas has always come to the club late at night, but it’s only now approaching six o’clock – about an hour and a half off from the time that the dancers take the stage. But they’re serving alcohol, and he’s more than happy to start there.

One of the scantily-clad waitresses recognizes him and says, “Hey, sweetie. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

 _I’ve been better for ages_ , he wants to say to her. _I’ve been reading and watching cartoons and falling asleep next to Dean for ages._

Ah, but all good things come to end eventually, don’t they?

Cas orders a scotch, but when the waitress brings him, the scent reminds him of Dean, and he sends it back, requesting a vodka shot instead. The liquid is foul when he tips it down his throat, but it satisfies something feral inside him. It douses the flames of Paktika sending smoke through his mind – so he orders another.

He’s barely aware of the passing of time beyond the coming and going of waiters and waitresses in small outfits, and then later when his mind is much cloudier and dancers take the stage. He doesn’t have much money in his wallet, only the bills that Gabriel gave him for more books before he left for Sioux Falls with Dean, and some savings on his card.

There’s a male dancer toward the back of the stage with dark brown hair, darker than Dean’s is, and the cut is a little longer. He is attractive. Perhaps he could use the presence of an indifferent man, something sexual without the tenderness behind it, without lingering stares or fingers tracing along the lines of ink on Cas’ shoulders, or a rough voice murmuring the word _angel._

“Excuse me,” Castiel says, when his waitress nears his table again, “I’d like a dance from the man in the back, if you will.”

“Sure thing, sweetie. We’ll set you up with a room and come get you when he’s ready.”

Cas indulges in another vodka shot while he waits, watching hips move and hearing other men whistle. He tries not to think too much on how Dean might feel about his being in a strip club, bartering for a dance from an anonymous man that makes a crap replacement for Dean in the first place.

But when his waitress comes to collect him and takes him to the lower level of Elysium, Castiel follows. He follows because he doesn’t know what will alleviate the heaviness inside him and the anxiety ripping away at the last of his mind. To his former family he is an abomination, but to be used as a decoration when deemed convenient.

And to those that do look out for him, he leaves disappointment. Gabriel and Dean wake in the middle of the night to tend to his childish need to be comforted after nightmares. Gabriel has sacrificed so much to care for Cas. He’s welcomed him into his home without asking for rent, without asking for help, without asking for anything at all. He loans Cas money to buy books when Castiel should be able to make that money for himself.

The small room he’s escorted to is windowless, barely bigger than the bathroom in Gabriel’s apartment. The light bulbs fixed in the ceiling are red, giving the space a dim, bloody glow. At the center of the room, a cushioned chair sits, and behind it mounted on the ceiling, a camera. On either side of the room round speakers deck the wall – beyond this, the room is empty.

Despite the lack of furniture, as soon as Cas takes a seat, he feels the walls close in. He doesn’t like the way the room smells, like musk and heavy, artificial vanilla.

The stripper slips in a short minute after Cas sits down. He offers a slow smile as he turns, but it hitches when he sees Cas. He asks, “You all right?”

“No,” Cas answers, probably because he’s drunk.

The stripper tilts his head, “You need me to call somebody for you?”

“No,” Cas says again.

So the guy just nods and clicks a remote control toward the speaker on the right. A sticky beat undulates into the room, making it ever-smaller. The noise and the light and the box-like shape make Cas’ lungs seize up and his head heavy. He can’t be here, he thinks, but he also already paid to have a dance from this stranger. The stripper advances on him like a lioness onto her prey, hips swinging in tiny, spandex shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

As he approaches, Cas sweeps his eyes over the young man’s chest. He’s smooth and hairless. He doesn’t have any scars, like Cas and Dean do. For a long while Cas doesn’t think the stripper is tattooed, either, but then he sees something, the edges of red rose petals peeking out from the waistband of the tiny shorts.

“What is your tattoo for?” Castiel asks.

The stripper stops and cocks his head, “Oh, uh…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Cas reasons, “I was merely curious.”

“That’s all right,” he replies, “It’s for my twin brother. A memorial tat. Kinda kills the mood talking about it though.”

“What happened?” asks Cas, “Wait, you needn’t answer that, either. I’m very drunk.”

The kid laughs a sad laugh, like Dean does, sometimes, and says, “Ah, it’s cool. It was when we were kids. He ran out in the street and – well, this guy didn’t see him.”

“My partner lost his mother as a child,” Cas mumbles.

“Your partner?” echoes the stripper, “You got somebody, then why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” Cas answers, “My brother showed up unexpectedly and we fought.”

“Then say you’re sorry,” the kid says back, “If you guys love each other, you’ll figure it out. That’s what I always guessed, anyway.”

Love?

Does he love Dean?

The answer comes easily, far more easily than Castiel expected it to. Of course he loves Dean. He loves everything about Dean. He loves how rude Dean is when he wakes up too early. He loves how kind Dean is when Cas has a nightmare. He loves how Dean reads slowly but still loves to do it. He loves how Dean loves that awful artificial cheese popcorn and pairs it with even more awful beer.

Cas _loves_ Dean.

“You’re right,” Cas says, surprised at the kid’s unexpected wisdom. But then, he’s found many odd things in this place, “Thank you for your time, and thank you for speaking to me – er, I apologize, I don’t know your name.”

“Andy,” he says, “No worries. You go get him, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, though when he stands, the blood rushes to his head, and he wobbles.

Andy catches him and says, “Here, I’ll get you to the stairs. I’ll have Ava take you up the stairs. I got another client pretty soon.”

Red in the face with humiliation, Castiel lets himself be manhandled down the hall and to the set of stairs, where his waitress from before takes his arm and guides him up. He has to hold the railing to make it – his leg hurts, and it hurts a lot. He considers calling Dean to say he’s sorry and to ask to come pick him up, but when Cas pats down the pockets of his jeans, he realizes that he left his phone at the apartment with his coat.

That’s okay. He’ll walk. It’ll hurt but he can do it.

Outside the air is damp from rain, and drizzling just a little. Most people take cover in buildings, under umbrellas, or off in corners that shade them from the wet. Castiel just walks. He only gets a few feet before he has to rest, leaning his hand against the edge of a building and lifting the weight off of his prosthetic.

He is very, _very_ drunk.

Just then, the sound of heavy footfalls thumps behind him. He thinks of Dean’s work boots, but before Cas can turn around, he hears a click, and then the press of cold metal against his neck.

“Give me your wallet,” he hears in his ear.

Cas sways on his feet and reaches for his pocket, anxiety kicked into overdrive. Flames spin before his eyes, and pain arches up his leg.

“Give me _your wallet_ ,” the thief repeats.

“S’in my pocket,” Cas murmurs.

He feels a hand slip into the pocket of his jeans and cool air where his leather wallet pressed against his thigh and presses no longer. The knife lifts from his throat, but an instant later, a fist meets his face, and Cas goes reeling backward. His head cracks against the wall behind him, skull to brick. Dizziness rushes over him and lucidity ebbs out. Some nightmarish combination of illness and reality sets in.

The last things that Castiel registers are Samadriel’s screams for help, shrill ringing in his ears, and heavy footfalls running away on wet concrete. 


	17. In a Perfect Pitch He Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for PTSD flashbacks. Also, please tell me if I have anything wrong/inaccurate.

**Chapter Track: One Rose – Why?**

**_In a Perfect Pitch He Breaks_ **

“What the fuck happened in here?” are the first words out of Gabriel’s mouth when he enters the apartment shortly after eight thirty. As it’s a Sunday, Trickster closed a little earlier. He surveys the damages: the scratched surface of the coffee table, the broken mug and coffee staining the carpet, the small ring of burnt carpet, and the bullet glinting within it and the casing not far.

He looks back to Dean, who sat on the couch hours ago and hasn’t moved. His pistol is in his lap, the serial number filed off and the barrel now cold.

“Dean, where the hell is Cas?”

Dean looks up. Gabriel’s face is red and twisted in a combination of worry and fury.

“He took off,” Dean murmurs.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘he took off’?” Gabriel demands.

“I mean, your dickhead brother Michael almost strangled him, I gave the assclown a piece a’ my mind, and Cas _took off_ ,” Dean says.

“…Michael?” Gabe says, and fury turns to a frown.

“Yeah. Tall, dark, dickhead?” Dean goes on.

“You let him in?” Gabriel says.

“No, dude,” Dean says, waving his pistol erratically, “We unlocked the place and he was just in your chair, man.”

“He was in my chair?” Gabriel echoes, “That _asshole_.”

“Hey, dipshit, did you miss the part where I told you that he almost strangled Cas?” Dean says.

“Cas could cream Michael,” Gabriel shrugs, “I mean, you’ve seen the guy’s arms. I _know_ you have, Romeo. I’m just glad you didn’t go all Investigation Discovery on his ass and kill him in a fit of spousal rage. There is a bullet in my carpet, however.”

Dean says, “I fired a warning shot. Guy’s a real shithead.”

“Trust me, I know,” Gabriel says, “You never sat through family dinner with him.”

“What’d he do, suck your dad’s dick the whole time?” Dean shoots back.

“Essentially,” Gabriel replies, “Michael’s in love with himself. An oldest-child thing, I think. They’re full of it.”

“Hey,” Dean complains.

“You’re a little full of it, Dean-o,” Gabriel says, lifting one accusatory brow.

“All right, maybe a little,” Dean says, and then stands. He tosses the pistol onto the coffee table – the safety has been on since Castiel yelled at him – and paces around the periphery of the room, “Shouldn’t we go find Cas? Shit, I should have cleaned up the mess. I’m sorry, dude. I should’ve – should’ve run after him.”

“Take a chill pill, kiddo,” Gabriel says, “Sometimes he needs to cool down. He’s only gotten pissed at you a couple times – weird, by the way, because you’re fucking annoying – but anyway, he used to get mad at me all the damn time. Probably just went drinking at that skin club he likes.”

Dean scowls at that and hazards a guess, “Elysium?”

“Yeah, that shithole,” Gabe says, “Anyway, he always comes home. He’ll be back late and probably plastered as hell, but he’ll be back. Just – let him figure it out. If Michael was here, well. Cas is gonna need some Cas-time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call to my dickhead brother. The older one, not the one that’s probably got a face full o’ stripper ass right now. Aaand don’t touch anything. We should take pics just in case, y’know?”

That suggestion puts Dean on edge and makes him angry, but Gabriel already has his cell to his ear and is halfway toward his bedroom.

Okay, so it’s not like he owns Cas or anything. The guy can do what he wants, but…the whole ‘partners’ thing has connotations, doesn’t it? Like, you shouldn’t have ‘a face full o’ stripper ass,’ or whatever Gabriel just said. He’s on edge, brain so wired that he can’t think through the anxiety that something might happen to Cas, because bad things always happen to people that Dean cares about.

Dean listens to Gabriel, and though his words are too muffled to hear through his bedroom door, his anger is clear. And when he emerges his mouth is set in a grim line. He meets Dean’s anticipant gaze and says, “I fuckin’ cannot stand most of my brothers, fyi. Michael especially.”

They photograph the damage on Gabriel’s fancy iPhone before they clean it all up. Dean’s thoughts drift to the things that Michael said, calling Dean _the whore_ without speaking directly to him, treating him like disobedient livestock. He grits his teeth so hard that Gabe rests a hand on his should and says, “Will you fucking relax? It’ll turn out okay.”

But it won’t, Dean thinks, because things don’t just turn out okay for him. He’s drifted from one clusterfuck to the next all his life, and the vague safety he feels – or _felt_ – in Gabriel’s apartment is damaged, tainted with Michael’s words that this apartment is not a home to either Dean or Cas, the insults on his tongue even as Dean aimed a pistol at his head.

“All right, you know what?” Gabriel says, “You. Go the fuck to sleep. Now.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Dean asks.

“Right now? You,” Gabe replies, “Cas will be fine. I told you. He always comes back. Now go sleep. You look like crap.”

Dean glares, hard, but Gabriel only cocks up one brow. A grunt of frustration escapes him, but Dean turns and retreats to his bedroom. His and Cas’ bedroom. Only when the familiar smell of their shared space hits him does he realize his own exhaustion. Old books and worn leather and the laundry they neglected to do before they left – it smells like _them_ , the scents of Cas and Dean so tangled they’re impossible to separate.

He doesn’t bother kicking off his boots. Dean just crawls into bed.

**X**

Dean wakes at half-past four in the morning, restless and heavy-headed. The bed beside him remains cold and empty, no Castiel in sight. Shitty feelings aside, Dean is upright in an instant and out into the apartment to see if Cas did come back and fell asleep on the couch or in Gabe’s chair. Both are empty, and the apartment is quiet, languishing in the early morning dark. A knot of panic forms in Dean’s throat. Gabe said Cas always comes back, but as he pokes around the corners of the apartment there is no Cas, no Cas passed out someplace weird, no Cas sobering up with coffee in the kitchen – no Cas at all.

Dean retreats to the back of the apartment and throws open the door to Gabriel’s bedroom. The place is a mess, and smells like some combination of weeks-old dirty laundry and patchouli incense. Dean dodges a shelf full of statues of various deities and a pair of suspect-looking boxer shorts to make it to the edge of Gabe’s bed, where he’s cocooned in a blanket patterned with Spiderman.

It is difficult sometimes to believe that Gabriel is a grown man.

“Gabe!” Dean says, and jostles his shoulder.

Gabe makes a noise of complaint and shifts away from Dean’s hand.

“Gabriel, you asshole,” Dean says, and tugs the Spiderman blanket away from Gabriel’s body.

Gabe cracks his eyes open and stares at the neon clock mounted across the room. He grumbles, “I don’t have to be up for another half hour, you twat.”

“Cas never came home,” Dean bites out, “You told me not to look for him. You _told me_ he always comes home.”

Gabriel rolls over and groans, “Shit.”

“Shit is right, sparky,” Dean snaps, “Get dressed. We’re going to look for him.”

To Gabriel’s credit, he makes quick work of swapping out Bart Simpson-printed pajamas for jeans and a t-shirt, and no more than seven minutes later is yawning in the passenger seat of the Impala, a crease between his brows.

“We should start at Elysium,” Gabe says tiredly, “You know where it is?”

“Of course I know where it is,” Dean snips, “Where do you think I picked up johns, you dumb fucker?”

“Sheesh, okay,” Gabriel says, but there’s worry there.

The club isn’t far – Dean parks a block out to start looking. The sun is just starting to peek through the buildings, and fills the street with a dim glow as he prowls the sidewalk.

It doesn’t take long to find him. Castiel is slumped over the alleyway that he and Dean met in, legs sprawled out in front of him. His body is folded oddly, his cheek up against the dirty ground among blackened spots of chewing gum and puddles of God-knows-what. Dean cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Gabe!” before he makes a mad dash to Cas’ side. A shallow puddle of vomit sits beside him, some dried on the side of his cheek, over a fresh-looking bruise. He’s pale, but breathing. From the smell of him, Dean bets he’ll have a fuckuva hangover when he’s up.

“Fuck’s sake,” Gabriel mutters when he appears at the mouth of the alley, “He okay?”

“I think so,” Dean says, “Cas. Cas, man, you okay?” Dean jabs Cas in the side, and he whines, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“Maybe you should trying kissing him,” Gabriel suggests, “Worked for Sleeping Beauty.”

“I can’t believe you’re dicking around at a time like this,” Dean says acidly, and casts a glare over his shoulder.

Gabriel shrugs, “Coping mechanism.”

“Do we need to take him to the hospital?” Dean asks.

“I don’t think so,” Gabe says, “He’s in shit shape now, but he hates hospitals. He’ll never forgive us if he wakes up in one.”

So Gabriel and Dean heave up a moaning Castiel, supporting his dead weight on either side of him. He comes to as soon as he’s upright, blinking and squinting, though the sun isn’t even past the horizon yet. He groans, “What the _fuuuck._ ”

“You got shitfaced,” Gabe supplies helpfully.

“I’m still drunk,” Cas mumbles, “I had a lot…a lot of vodka. N’ then I…was _assailed_ and a man stole my wallet.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean says, “We’ll take care of it, angel. Don’t worry about it.”

“Angel?” Gabe smirks a little over at Dean.

“Like you don’t have all kinds a’ shit you call Kali,” Dean shoots back, but Gabe’s smirk doesn’t let up, even as they reach the Impala. They sit Cas down on the hood while Dean grabs for the keys in his jeans to unlock the back and shuffle Cas inside. He orders Gabriel to sit with him, partially because he doesn’t want Cas hurting his baby, but mostly because he doesn’t want Cas hurting himself.

When they park in the apartment lot, Dean and Gabriel take either side of Castiel again, pulling him into the elevator while he sways and babbles apologies and complains about his head starting to feel heavier and heavier.

“Bed, please,” Cas mumbles.

Dean shakes his head, “You stink, dude. You’re not getting in bed without a bath.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, eats a quick breakfast of cold pizza and points a finger at Dean, “I gotta open the shop. You better take good fuckin’ care of him, or I will end you.”

“Gotcha,” Dean says, and as he guides Cas to the bathroom, he hears the apartment door open and close again.

Dean puts the toilet lid down and sits Cas on top of it so that he has access to Cas’ prosthetic. It must be killing the guy – he’s been wearing it since early in the evening yesterday, and hasn’t taken it off since. That’s like, twelve straight hours of having it on, and sure, Cas is used to it, but he’s not _that_ used to it. Dean detaches the limb and rolls down the sleeve. The scar tissue is redder than usual, irritated from being worn down so hard. Instinctively, Dean presses his fingers to the pinker places and massages. Cas moans.

“Good?” Dean asks.

“Mmph,” Cas expresses.

“All right, I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean laughs.

Dean turns the bath faucet to hot and lets the tub fill while he helps Cas shed the rest of his clothing, piece by clumsy piece, onto the linoleum. Cas is so out of it that he doesn’t tell Dean to move the clothing. He just lets Dean heft him up and help him into the warm water. Cas moans again when he slides in.

“S’good,” he mumbles.

“Awesome,” Dean says, “That’s awesome, angel.” He starts by taking a washcloth to the scum on Cas’ cheek. His nose wrinkles at the scent but he keeps it together for Cas’ sake, because he’s still drunk and swiftly flying toward Worst Hangover Ever. Dean gives Cas the full monty, rubbing down his entire body with his organic-whatever soap and working his fingers into kinks that he finds.

And then, out of nowhere, Cas cracks open one blue eye and asks, “Why do you even like me?”

The question is like a boot to the gut. He says it like he truly doesn’t understand.

“Because,” Dean says, “You pulled me outta hell. You treated me good when no one else did, treated me like a goddamn human being. You gave me books and let me crash here, and you sat with me like this when I got the crap beat out of me by my shitty john.”

“Well,” Cas mumbles.

“What?”

“You meant, ‘you treated me _well_ ,’” he elaborates.

Dean rolls his eyes and snorts, “All right, Nutty Professor. I think it’s time to get you tucked into bed.”

Castiel makes a noise of complaint when Dean spreads a towel over the toilet lid and scoops Cas out of the bath to arrange him on it, drying him limb by limb before he ruffles the towel through Cas’ wet hair, making it stick up. He wets Castiel’s toothbrush, coats it in toothpaste, and sticks it in Cas’ hand, “Do that. I’m gonna grab you some clothes.”

‘Clothes’ really means a pair of soft, worn boxers that are easy enough to slip over Cas’ hips, though trickier in his current state. Dean fits his arm around Cas middle and navigates them to the sink, where Dean makes Cas spit toothpaste and drink a plastic cup of tap water before they move the short distance to the bedroom.

Cas collapses onto the mattress with a grunt, something between pain and relief. Though Dean slept plenty, he doesn’t want to leave Cas alone, not like this. So, he kicks off his boots, pulls off yesterday’s jeans, and crawls up onto the mattress. He inches up behind Cas and loops his arms around Cas’ middle, pressing his chest to the curve of Cas’ spine.

**X**

Dean nurses Cas through the hangover of a lifetime. He brings him water and the whole bottle of aspirin, some plain toast, and a little bit of orange juice to give him a boost. Cas suffers quietly though the whole thing, not complaining even once, though he does ask Dean to pull his curtains over his window, though the blinds are already closed.

It is so bad, in fact, that the effects last an entire twenty four hours and then some, all of which Castiel spends in the bedroom asleep or curled up in the covers and staring off at nothing in particular. Dean tries not to suffocate him – Sam used to accuse him of ‘fussing’ when they were kids and he was sick. Dean hasn’t ever had to nurse Sammy through a hangover, though. He wonders if Jess has ever had to.

By day three, Dean decides he needs to convince Cas to come out of the room. He’s not hungover anymore, that much is clear. There’s color back in his cheeks and his eyes have gone from confusion-clouded to sharp as ever.

Dean brings coffee as a sort of bribe, preparing it just the way that Castiel likes before he slips into the bedroom.

Cas is curled into himself, blankets pulled up to his chin. He shifts when he hears Dean enter the room, eyes flicking over the curve of his shoulder.

“Hey,” Dean says, “I brought you some coffee.”

Cas sits up, blanket falling to his waist and accepts the drink, cradling the mug between both hands as Dean sits on the edge of the mattress.

“You wanna come watch a movie?” Dean suggests carefully, “We could watch Fantastic Mr. Fox.” That’s his favorite, and if that doesn’t work, then Dean’s gonna know to bring in the big guns.

Castiel shakes his head, and when he speaks his voice is rough and unused, “No. I’d like to stay in here.”

Dean licks his lips, “All right. You want me to grab some cards? And we can play gin or something.”

“No. Thank you, Dean, but I’d like to be left alone,” Cas says.

Dean breaks his gaze and nods, “’Kay. I’ve got my shift at noon, but text if you need anything, you hear?”

“I’m not an infant,” Cas says.

Dean exhales through his nostrils and says, “I know.” He leans over and hesitates before he applies a quick kiss to Cas’ cheek. He does not react one way or another.

Cas does not come out of the bedroom for the next hours, and it comes time to head off to work. He shoves his feet in his boots and throws his jacket over his shoulders, even though the weather is too warm for it. He knocks on the bedroom door to tell Cas that he’s leaving, and receives only a soft ‘okay’ from inside before he takes off down the stairs and into the lot.

When he arrives and punches in at Trickster, Gabriel greets him with a half-hug and the question, “How’s he doing?”

Dean shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck before he says, “He’s not coming out of our room. I tried to bribe him with coffee and a movie, but – no dice.”

Gabe sighs at this, and leans back on the counter. Dean never thought he would wish for there to be a sudden rush of customers, but he does now. He doesn’t want to have to discuss whatever’s going on with Castiel. Dean doesn’t know how to handle any of it. He’s essentially fucking useless, just some dumb guy with GED that doesn’t know how to help people the way that they help him.

“It’s like when he came back,” Gabe says, “When I brought him back here, he locked himself in his room. Only ever opened it to let me bring him food or coffee, and sometimes new books. Took him a couple months to come out into the fucking living room. God damn fucking Michael.”

At least Michael agreed not to cause any more trouble. Dean gathers that Gabriel threatened him with the breaking and entering part of what went down at the apartment, and Michael wouldn’t want to tarnish his image. Even if he wasn’t convicted, he’d still look bad. And for Michael, Gabe says, that would just not do.

“Anyway, when you came into the picture, Cas had only been going out of the apartment for like, a month. And sure, yeah, it was to that strip joint, but I was just glad that he finally went someplace, even if it was just for booze and ass,” Gabriel replies, “And you, man. You got him to go all the way to fuckin’ South Dakota. Christ on a cracker, I am so pissed that he’s going back to that shit.”

“You know I fucking hate Michael, right?” Dean says.

Gabriel shrugs, “Join the club, kiddo,” and then to the round-faced girl in a KU hoodie that coughs from the other side of the counter, “What can I do you for, gorgeous?”

**X**

Dean sleeps on the couch that night, like way back in winter, bundled up in the spare blanket. He falls asleep watching old reruns of Mythbusters, the blue-white glow of the TV putting him to sleep like it used to do for him and Sam on Bobby’s couch, during one of John’s famed disappearances.

He lets Gabriel take care of Cas, giving him as wide a berth as he needs.

Besides, Dean’s antsy as it is. His court date’s next week and Sammy will be flying into Kansas in a mere three days. No matter how much Sam assures Dean that he’s been doing his research and he thinks he can get Dean off of the charges easy, Dean can’t get the anxiety out of his head that comes with the possibility of a return to prison.

Okay, as long as you establish that you’re not to be fucked with, the other inmates generally leave you alone. But the fact that he has to consider anything of the fucking sort has him on edge and snappish, barking at Gabe for dumb shit that doesn’t matter. Gabriel, to his credit, takes it in stride, but not without throwing back jibes of his own – enough to get Dean to shut up when necessary.

Two days before Sam is scheduled to arrive, Dean has a day off that he spends mainly pacing the perimeter of the apartment and smoking outside, until he hears shuffling from the bedroom that he hasn’t been sleeping in, and knows he should bring Cas his coffee.

Dean ducks in with the hot liquid with his eyes trained on the floor. It isn’t until Cas gently says, “Dean,” that he looks up.

Cas looks timid, which is definitely not a typical look for him.

“What’s up, dude?” Dean asks.

Cas catches his lower lip between his teeth and says, “I need you.”

“You – _oh_ ,” Dean says. Cas needs him, like Dean needed Cas in Sioux Falls. He sets the mug of coffee on the bedside table, careful not to slosh any onto the stack of paperback scifi novels stacked there, and climbs onto the mattress, kneeling in front of him. He asks, “What do you want, angel?”

“Could you please fuck me?” Cas asks quietly, so demure he may as well have said _may I please have this dance_?

“A’course,” Dean says.

When he leans over to brush his lips over Castiel’s, the embrace melts into something far more tenderhearted than he meant to. But Cas is finally talking to him again, and son of a bitch if he isn’t relieved over it. He missed Cas’ warmth beside him as he slept, missed the wry remarks and snide corrections of Dean’s grammar, and Christ, he missed _this_. He missed Cas being putty under his hands, and the breathless little noises that Dean can tease out of him with nothing but his mouth.

Dean wedges his knee between Castiel’s left leg and the stump of his right. The brush of scar tissue against Dean’s skin makes him shiver, makes him remember that Cas is just as fucked up as he is, if not more. They’re both angry, both scarred and used up – and he’s never been happier to have somebody that _gets it_ on that level. Sure, their histories are about as different as can be, but they’ve both had bodies ripped to shreds and minds fucked beyond belief.

So, yeah, they’re a little crazy, the both of them.

Dean fucking loves that.

“Dean?” Cas softly says beneath him.

“I’m right here,” Dean replies, and covers Cas’ mouth with his before he can say anything else.

When Dean slides inside Cas, he’s hot and tight and perfect. He doesn’t fuck Cas like he did in his old bedroom at Bobby’s place. He takes his time, undoing Castiel with slow, thorough thrusts of their bodies. Cas digs his nails into the skin above Dean’s shoulder blades and cries out, murmuring again in Pashto when Dean’s cock inside him slides against his prostate. He hooks his good leg around Dean’s waist and shakes when Dean closes his fingers over his erection, rubbing in time with the movement of their bodies.

Cas makes a choked noise when he comes, something between a cry and groan. Dean follows no more than a few minutes later, and collapses on top of Cas with their bodies still joined together, both of them sweating and panting.

When their eyes meet, Dean knows. Dean knows that this round meant more than a thorough comfort fuck. It scares the living fuck out of him, so the obvious solution is to lean in for another kiss and suggest, “Grilled cheese?”

Cas’ mouth falls into a lopsided smile against Dean’s cheek and he says, “Yes, please.”

So Dean coaxes Cas out into the kitchen, where they talk about menial bullshit while Dean whips up grilled cheeses in nothing but his birthday suit.

Two subjects they avoid: Dean’s upcoming court date, and whatever the fuck it was that they just felt together in that bedroom.

**X**

Castiel does not see Garth on his way into the VA clinic, and that makes him even more nervous than he was before. Chuck has scheduled their first EMDR session for today. He didn’t tell Dean that he was tense, but Dean knew anyway – instead of dropping him off, Dean parked in the lot outside the clinic and accompanied Castiel inside. He won’t be allowed in the room for the session, but knowing that Dean will be in the waiting room eases his disquiet by an inch.

Dean rests his hand at the base of Castiel’s back while they wait for the elevator, his palm warm and its presence reassuring. Cas doesn’t even know if Dean’s doing it on purpose or if it’s just instinct to anchor Cas in the real world with the touch of his fingers. When the lift doors open, there’s no one inside, and Dean takes advantage as they enter, to apply a kiss to Cas’ temple.

“Heya, Castiel,” Kevin says, when Cas pushes open the door to the offices, Dean a pace behind him. When Kevin’s eyes shift to him, he asks, “Who’s this?”

“I’m his partner,” Dean cuts in, before Cas can speak a word.

“The infamous Dean?” Kevin grins, “Dude, Castiel, why didn’t you tell me he was so good looking?”

“I figured it was a given,” Castiel gruffly responds, and gets a spark of pleasure at the smile that appears on Dean’s face, that smile that makes him look so much younger than he is.

When Chuck enters the waiting area to collect Castiel, Dean has his hand on Cas’ back. He rubs his palm over the tense muscles and doesn’t say anything, and that’s good. That’s perfect. Chuck cocks his head curiously at them both and asks, “Did you ask Dean to come here with you?”

“Oh,” Cas says, “Well –”

“Nah,” Dean interjects, “I noticed the Empire State Building sized stick up his butt and invited myself.”

Cas jerks his head to glower and Chuck breaks into surprised laughter.

“You ready?” Chucks asks, when the chuckling subsides.

Cas wets his chapped lips and says, “No, but I’m coming with you anyway.”

He stands, but before he can follow Chuck, Dean grabs his wrist. Cas glances down at him, confused. Dean doesn’t say anything. He just slides his hand down to Castiel’s and squeezes it tightly within his own.

As Castiel follows Chuck to a new room, a blank, decoration-lacking room instead of his office, he explains, “Sorry. He’s being much more touchy-feely than usual.”

“He knows you’re nervous,” Chuck says, and passes Castiel a pair of headphones, “Put these on and take a seat.”

Castiel obeys.

“All right, so let me give you the four-one-one on what’s gonna happen in the next two hours,” Chuck says, “I’m going to ask you questions about your trauma, and you’re going to answer honestly and fully. This will probably induce a flashback. The headphones’ll keep you with us. They’re not gonna do anything but make a loud _beep_ , but it should be enough. Okay, Castiel?”

Cas nods, gut churning.

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

Chuck messes with the equipment for a few more seconds. A _beep_ sounds from the headphones, and Chuck asks, “You hear that?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers.

“Good,” Chuck says, and takes the seat across from him. He places his pen and notebook on the tabletop between them and holds his pen perpendicular to the floor, a foot and a half away from Castiel’s face, “Who is Samandriel?”

_Beep._

“He was my best friend,” Castiel answers.

“How did Samandriel die?”

Flames, screaming, sand, gunsmoke.

_Beep._

“In a bomb blast,” Castiel says.

Castiel is sweating. He did a lot of sweating in Paktika. It’s all desert, all dry, and under all his equipment he sweated until he itched. He sweated so much that night, though he couldn’t differentiate between sweat and blood.

“Describe the bomb blast.”

Castiel hadn’t seen much real action until then. There had been scuffles, sure, but nothing like what happened that day. He was in town on routine business with some of the other soldiers. He and Samandriel were sitting outside looking up at the night sky, talking about family and missing being back home.

Cas didn’t see the man until it was too late. He walked into the square with explosives strapped around his chest and a trigger in his hand. He didn’t think. He moved on instinct, and leapt out of the way. Castiel made it to cover behind their Humvee, but Samandriel hadn’t seen the bomber, hadn’t moved.

The blast sent shrapnel into Castiel’s leg. He was bleeding, bleeding so much. He thought he was going to die, but the screams of one of the women stationed with him yanked him out of the fear with a force like he’d never felt before. He couldn’t see Samandriel anywhere, even though they’d been sitting beside each other moments before. The building his people had gone into was aflame, collapsing in on itself.

Castiel dragged himself inside of it. He couldn’t even feel his leg, truthfully. He just acted, using the strength of his arms and his other leg to carry him through the chaos of blood and smoke and shouting. He found the female officer trapped underneath a piece of the fallen frame of the building. With every ounce of his strength, he lifted what he could and wrapped his arm around her middle. He dragged her out, away from the building.

Time seemed to go at a different speed as he worked, pulling her to safety with his leg useless and bleeding beneath him.

When she was safe, he went back. The smoke filled his lungs and his vision, but he didn’t care. He heard one of the others – he could hear him coughing, though he wasn’t yelling. The boy could not have been more than nineteen or twenty. His legs were broken and a cut over his eye was gushing blood over his face, but he was conscious. With every move that Castiel made, looping his arm around this boy as he had with the woman, the boy whined out pained ‘thank you’s.

That was when Castiel heard Samandriel calling for help. His voice was little more than a tinny whimper, but his words were clear.

“Castiel! Cas, Castiel!”

Samandriel was covered in blood.

In his gut, a huge chunk of metal shrapnel protruded. He was stuck, pinned in place by that long stem of twisted metal.

“Samandriel,” he remembers saying, and he remembers reaching for Samandriel’s hand.

_Beep._

Cas jolts to reality. He’s sweating, hyperventilating, and Chuck is no longer in front of him but beside him, his hand clasped around Castiel’s shoulder.

“Has it – is it over?”

“Yeah,” Chuck confirms, “You did a great job, Cas. A real great job. Now I want you to tell me about Christmas. You said that you invited Dean to stay for the holidays?”

Castiel nods, unsure of why Chuck wants to talk about Christmas with Dean and Gabriel and Anna. Still, he relays stories about his nieces and talks about making food together. He tells Chuck about how Dean bought presents for everyone even though he didn't have much money, wrapped them in newspaper and put them under the tree. He finds himself smiling as he recalls his nieces thanking Dean for their coloring books and the expression of happy surprise on Dean's face when he got hugged, like he hadn't been hugged in so long and couldn't believe it was happening. 

The heat of Paktika slows to the warmth of Christmas, Castiel's heartbeat dropping back down to a normal rate. He's still shaken. His stomach churns with an ill feeling, but being brought back to Christmas blanketing around him is a balm. 

"All right," Chuck says at last, "The session's over. I'll see you next week for the next one."

Chuck walks Castiel out to the waiting area, which he doesn’t typically do. When Dean sees him, he stands. Castiel can’t help it – he runs for Dean and coils his arms around Dean’s waist, pressing his face to Dean’s neck. He doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until Dean cajoles him into tilting his head up, and wipes the cool tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

“Let’s go home,” Dean says.

**X**

The following day, Sam arrives.


	18. More Than a Piece of Leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor PTSD flashback and mentions of past rape.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to thank you guys for all your awesome support. You make me feel as warm as a fresh batch of cookies, okay? Okay.

**Chapter Track: I Need You – Lynyrd Skynyrd**

**_More Than a Piece of Leg_ **

When they arrive back at the apartment, Dean inflates the spare mattress for Sam while Cas preps a pot of coffee for the three of them. Sam blows all the air out of his lungs and flops back onto the couch. He gives Dean a look from the seat.

Dean is a fucking mess.

He knows he’s got to divulge everything for Sam to represent him to the best of his ability, but there’s so much that Sam doesn’t know. And there’s so much that Cas doesn’t know, either, but Dean doesn’t want to have to discuss this bullshit with Sam without Cas at his side. When Castiel brings coffee in Gabe’s French press and three cartoon character-adorned mugs, he wishes he had a flask of bourbon instead, but sucks it up and pours himself a cup of joe.

Sam pours his own cup and makes a grateful noise when he takes his first sip. It relieves a little of the travel weariness on his face – but then his expression goes lawyer-serious, and he sighs as he scratches a hand through his long hair.

“Okay, so, I’ve been digging up shit on this Alastair guy, and it definitely doesn’t look good for him,” Sam says, “He’s a suspect in three murders, and then there’s your case. Thing is, the guy’s rich as hell. Judge denied him bail so he’s locked up now, but he owns this huge tech company based in Kansas City and has like, four houses. One of ‘em’s here in Lawrence. Anyway, he’s a sicko. As far as I can tell, he’s not going to be at your trial, but you know you’re going to be called as a witness at his, right?”

Dean groans.

“Probably not, then,” Sam huffs, “So, look. I’m not as worried about your court stuff as I am about his. I know he’s entered in a plea of not guilty, but I don’t know what his defense is gonna throw at us, so – I need to know everything, man. I mean it.”

“Now?” Dean asks.

“Preferably, yeah. His date’s not for another month, but I need to know what we’re gonna hear. Obviously, you’re not on trial there, but I’ve got a feeling that his defense is gonna rip you a new one anyway, and there’s not much I can do about that,” Sam takes another sip of his coffee.

Dean throws a look at Cas, who’s been standing behind him. Cas seems to take this as an invitation to sit beside Dean on the couch and extend his arm just behind Dean’s shoulders, resting on the tops of the cushions.

Dean licks his lips and asks, “Where do I start?”

“You’re smart, dude. I think you’ll know what’s important info,” Sam nods.

The coffee isn’t whiskey and Dean still wishes it was when he takes another swallow.

“Um,” Dean starts. Real smooth, Winchester. He sighs, “First time I did any sex stuff for money, I was fourteen.”

Sam spits coffee back into his mug, “ _What_?”

“Jesus, Sammy, relax,” Dean snaps, “It was just some handies, nothing serious. You wanted to go on this trip your class was taking to some art thing, so I rustled up a couple twenties from some dudes. I didn’t do much stuff ‘til after – well,” Dean glances back at Cas and coughs, “So anyway, I went with this dude when you were like, eleven and some crap went down –”

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate on ‘crap,’ Dean,” Sam says.

“He, uh. Had his way with me?” Dean tries. He beats down the feeling of sickness stirring in his gut.

“That’s not what you said to me,” Cas says lowly.

The way that Sam’s looking at him is killing him. He doesn’t know if it would be easier or harder to tell all this bullshit to stranger – all he knows is that he never wanted Sam to have to hear any of this. Dean’s past is just Dean’s to deal with. It’s not Sam’s problem, and he never wanted it to have to be.

Dean breathes out and closes his eyes, “The deal was for me to blow him and he decided to fuck me instead.”

“He raped you, Dean,” Castiel says.

“I know,” Dean grinds out, “Do you have to fucking say it like that? Fuck it, I need a drink.”

Dean jerks up to his feet and retreats to the kitchen, where he pours himself a shot of bourbon and tips it back. He presses his palms down into the counter laminate and tries to make himself breathe, tries to focus on the burn in his throat instead of red pickups and silver buffalo belt buckles clinking as they open up.

He doesn’t even realize that Sam and Cas have followed him until Sam says, “I didn’t know.”

Dean gives a breathless laugh to that and pours another shot of bourbon. As the liquor burns in his throat, he nods, “Yeah, I kinda meant for it to be that way.”

“We could have asked Bobby –”

“We already owe Bobby way too fucking much,” Dean says, fists clenched tight at his sides, “Can you imagine how much fucking more we would owe him if I didn’t take one for the damn team once in a while so you could have the shit you needed? I just wanted you to get to be a normal kid. That was all I wanted.”

“We weren’t normal, Dean,” Sam says, “Our mom was dead, our dad was a drunk, and our dad’s best friend from high school was the one cooking us dinner and teaching us how to do crap like parents are supposed to. I knew we weren’t normal, and I knew you were trying to make things right. I just didn’t know you’d taken it so goddamn far.”

“I took it to where it needed to be,” Dean shoots back, “I wanted to make sure no one ever said the crap to you that they said to me. I never wanted kids making fun of you for the holes in your shoes or telling you your dad smelled funny when he picked you up from school dead drunk, okay? I wanted to make sure you got through high school and got to do all the stuff you wanted to do. And yeah, I had to give up some crap on the way there, but that’s fucking fine by me.”

“Are you insane?” Sam cries, “Do you know what it’s like knowing that somebody’s working that hard for you and then finding out that they were – were putting themselves in danger just so you could go on field trips and –”

“And eat lunch every day, and have decent clothes on your back,” Dean goes on, “Family takes care of family. That’s how it’s supposed to be done. Dad wasn’t doing his goddamn job, so I had to do it twice over. And don’t you dare tell me I was insane for doing that.”

Sam stares at Dean for a long, long time. His face is pale, drawn tight with the revelations of what Dean got up to during their youth. He rubs a hand over his face and threads his fingers back through his hair. He inflates his cheeks with air before he blows all the air out of his lungs, pointedly avoiding looking at either Dean or Castiel.

He’s trying not to cry.

It takes Dean a second to process this, a gut-wrenching second that has Dean in pain and downing another dose of bourbon.

And then Sam launches forward at him.

Dean flinches back, thinking he’s about to get hit. Instead, Sam smothers him in a hug, a tight embrace that draws Dean right up into his t-shirt. Sam rubs his back and Dean smothers his face in the cotton of his brother’s t-shirt. He smells all classy, like laundry detergent and high-end cologne. And hell, the kid’s going to Stanford. That’s gotta say something about all the crap he did to take care of Sam, right? Surely, Dean did something right. At least _something._

“I didn’t screw you up, right?” Dean asks.

Sam tenses and pulls away from Dean. He frowns and says, “Dean. _Dude_. When people tell me shit like, my parents would be proud of me, that they must’ve raised me up real good – I always tell them it was my brother. Sometimes I just – I think of who I would be without you and it’s like…it’s fucking bleak, dude. Look, Dean, I got into trouble after you left, and Bobby had to play clean-up. Sometimes on my own I’m just a mess. You and Bobby made sure I never let everything go to hell. You especially.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his eyes focused down on his boots and just nods. He just nods, because what else is there for him to do?

“Guess I should get into all the other shit, then,” Dean hoarsely says at last, and for good measure, brings the entire bottle of bourbon back to the couch with him.

**X**

On the day of his court date, Dean wakes early and restless. Sam had to wrench the bourbon away from him by the end of their discussion, and force-feed him greasy food and water to get his stomach in order so he wouldn’t be hungover in the courthouse.

When Dean emerges from the shower, Sam has an ironing board (There’s an ironing board in this joint? Who knew.) set out and a charcoal gray suit over it, iron in hand and clad only in boxer shorts patterned in boats, though as far as Dean knows, Sam has never been on a boat in his life.

“How’re you feeling, dude?” Sam asks.

“Like I need coffee,” Dean says, “Or whiskey. Or both. Try n’ keep your shit down, by the way. Cas is still asleep.”

“Is he okay? He seemed kind of out of it yesterday,” Sam says.

Dean circles past him and into the kitchen to start up a brew, and pours himself a bowl of cereal (Lucky Charms, because who says a grown man can’t still enjoy his Lucky Charms) before he plops down onto the couch and answers, “Dunno, man. He had his appointment at the VA a couple days ago for some new treatment? Came out looking like shit. EM…EMDR, I think?”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam says, “We did a thing on EMDR in freshman psychology. He probably had a flashback, dude.”

“How the hell is that supposed to help?” Dean asks.

“It’s supposed to help you change how you think about what happened to you,” Sam says with a shrug, and sets the iron aside on the board to transfer his attention to the other side of his blue button-down, “Like, the idea is that you didn’t process the memory right and the therapy helps your brain store it right.”

And then after a second Sam adds, “…As I understand it.”

“Such a know-it-all,” Dean snorts.

“Jerk,” Sam says.

Dean answers affectionately, “Bitch.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sam goes on, “The whole process tends to trigger flashbacks like nobody’s business. So like, it’s effective, but really damn tiring. No wonder he was so far gone. Do you…what happened to him? Over there, I mean.”

“Not my story to tell, Sammy,” Dean replies through a mouthful of cereal. He carefully dodges the marshmallows so that he can enjoy a couple of marshmallow-only spoonfuls at the end of the bowl.

Sam assesses Dean at that.

“What?” Dean says.

“Nothing,” Sam shrugs back, and then throws his freshly-ironed shirt over his shoulders, “It’s just really respectful of you is all.”

Dean rolls his eyes and drains the leftover, sugary-tasting milk at the bottom of his bowl. He places his bowl in the sink and swigs some more coffee before he slips back into the bedroom to collect the clothes they bought for him to look nice in court. They’re from Target, so…Target-nice, but it’s enough that Dean won’t look like a “young biker gang wannabe” as Sam termed it, an insult that landed them in a wrestling match on the living room floor with Cas on the couch above them, some combination of exasperated and amused.

“Wuh – what time is it?” he hears from the bed, and sees Cas sleepily sit up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Not even eight yet, angel,” Dean says, “Go back to bed. Sammy and I have to be at the courthouse by nine.”

Cas makes a tired noise before he flops back over and closes his eyes again. Dean lingers in the doorway with his stiff, new clothes hanging from his hands in a plastic Target bag. He just watches for a moment, letting his gaze loiter on Castiel flopped over on his side of the bed, instinctively keeping from where Dean sleeps. It’s kind of – well, it’s something that makes Dean think _apple pie life_ , something he knew even as a kid that he’d never have and, even with evidence to the contrary before him, he doesn’t know if he can have now.

“Mm,” Cas sighs, and rolls onto his back. His blue eyes crack open a sliver, and he says, “Come here.”

Dean obeys and parks his ass on the edge of the mattress.

“Generally people give each other kisses for good luck, Dean,” Cas says.

“Is that your way of asking me to mack on you?” Dean chuckles.

Castiel makes a face, closing his eyes and puckering his lips like they’re about to participate in a playground-age dare to kiss each other. Dean huffs and leans down, and then laughs when their lips connect.

“You taste like shit, dude,” Dean says, and they both laugh before Dean tears away to use that iron on his impressive new getup.

**X**

Buttoned to the nape, shirt tucked in, new shoes pinching his toes, hair combed out like a 1950s schoolboy – Dean feels like a prize idiot, even more so when he and Sam duck into Trickster for another round of coffee before the circus, and Gabriel bursts into laughter.

“Shut the fuck up, Gabe,” Dean says.

Gabriel smirks and tousles a hand through his sandy hair. He says, “Relax, kiddo. You look hella nice, don’t get me wrong. You just look like the gayer, accountant version of yourself.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Dean says, and glares when Sam starts laughing at the idea of _gayer, accountant Dean._

They leave with caffeinated beverages in hand, Sam chuckling and Dean miserable.

The Douglas County Courthouse is one of the most intimidating buildings that Dean has ever seen – and he’s been to prison. It looks like some combination of a castle and a church, complete with clock tower and light-colored stonework. His throat is dry when they park the Impala and walk toward it together. Sam's supervising attorney meets them there, this short guy with wire-rimmed glasses that seems to understand that both Winchester brothers appreciate that he maintain as much distance as he's allowed. He's not a bad guy, but a stranger being let in on Dean's sordid past sets his teeth on edge. Sam has to act as both brotherly balm and voice of reason. 

“Dean,” Sam says, and stops him before they enter the building with a gargantuan hand on Dean’s shoulder, “We’re gonna be okay. I’ve done a lot of work on this. Besides, this isn’t your first offense but it is your first offense here, and we can make that count for something.”

Dean swallows to wet his too-dry throat and nods. He stares at the doors to the courthouse and realizes he wants to run far, far away in the other direction. Find a new town. A new home. Anything but being right here, right now, like this.

But Lawrence is where Cas is. Where work is.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says lamely, wanting Sam to stop staring at him.

“Sorry for what?” Sam asks.

“For being such a fuck up,” Dean supplies.

Sam frowns at him.

“Dean, you are the furthest thing from a fuck up,” he says, “And I – I’m proud that you’re my brother. I just want you to know that.”

Dean nods and then exhales.

“All right, yeah,” he says, “That’s enough of that crap. Let’s get this party started.”

Sam shakes his head as if to say _oh, Dean_ , and they push open the doors, stepping inside the courthouse.

**X**

Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or curse or cry when he exits the courtroom. Sam is holding all his paperwork, and doesn’t make a noise when Dean sits on one of the modern-style benches in the hallway just outside.

“Fuck,” Dean finally says.

“You’re welcome,” Say replies, “And I love you too.”

The assault charges were dropped, just like Sam told him they would be. The prostitution charges were whittled down to a more minor charge that’ll keep, but the punishment is far better than any stint in prison. Monthly meetings with a probation officer, one hundred and fifty hours of community service, and mandatory counseling every two weeks. That’s what he’s got. And it’s not bad. It’s the lightest sentence of his life, actually.

Sammy’s obviously a motherfucking sorcerer.

Sure, he’s not looking forward to having to spill his guts to some douchebag that gets paid to hear people whine. Picking up garbage from the side of the highway doesn’t sound like a blast, either. Probation he’s done before, and that’s not too bad. He’s just gotta make sure he doesn’t fuck any of it up. This chance he’s got is tenuous, and he knows that.

“We should celebrate,” Dean suggests, “Booze, dancin’, the whole nine.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Sam assures him, “You got any places in mind?”

Dean considers this. He doesn’t actually know that many joints other than the places whose side streets and alleyways he haunted when in search of johns to milk for cash. He doesn’t want to go to any of those. It’s not as much fear of being recognized anymore as it is not wanting to celebrate the end of his hooking career in a place that those ugliest parts of his past live in.

He wants to tell himself that it isn’t that way anymore and that he’ll never go back to it, but he’s thought that so much that Dean thinks it’s best not to consider his job future at all. Or his future with Cas. Or his future.

Tonight he’ll just make memories, the good kind that he can store up in his head when he needs to remember something nice, the way he’d put reality out of his mind when a john fucked him and think of the last Christmas he spent in Sioux Falls, think of liquor-infused eggnog and the tension that he and Sam decided to put aside just for a little bit, just for the holidays.

Son of a bitch, how lucky can a guy get? He has enough good things stuffed in his brain from the last eight months than he’s had in the rest of his twenty four years put together. Maybe he shouldn’t credit that all to Cas. But most of it. Sure, he’s got pictures of drinking beer with Bobby for Sam’s birthday, or playing _guess that song_ with Gabriel while they close up Trickster together, whistling AC/DC and Metallica and Motorhead while Gabe goes for Lady Gaga and Daft Punk.

But he’s got so much up there with Cas. He’s got Batman and cartoons and cheese popcorn. He’s got falling asleep on opposite sides of the mattress and waking up tangled in warmth. He’s got mind-blowing sex. He’s got evening runs. He’s got science fiction novels and cigarettes on the tiny back deck.

Dean’s not a Christian man, but he silently thanks the universe for running him out of money on that night in September, thanks his lucky stars he saw a scruffy drunk in a dirty trench coat and saw an opportunity.

“Dean?” Sam says, brows hitched in concern.

“Yeah,” Dean says, finally, and thinks of the night he got plastered and Doc Pam had to take him home, “There’s this biker joint. Don’t look at me like that. It’s my celebration.”

Sam looks as though he’s trying _very_ hard not to roll his eyes, for which Dean has to give him credit. He stands up and claps Sam on his suit-clad shoulder, indicating that they should head home with a cock of his head at the courthouse exit.

Castiel pounces on Dean about two seconds after he and Sam make it through the door, mussing up his hair and wrinkling his cheap-ass dress shirt.

“Jesus,” Dean says, when Cas decides their kiss is over, “Somebody’s happy to see me.”

“I was concerned,” he supplies, “What’s the verdict? Literally.”

“Dropped assault charges, bumped the hooking down and I got some community service and counseling and shit,” Dean says, “Sammy and me wanna go out to celebrate. I’m thinkin’ a few rounds of beers with the boys and grindin’ all up on my blue-eyed knockout.”

Cas lifts a brow.

“Right,” Dean says, “Sammy and _I._ ”

“That too,” Cas hums, “But did you just call me your ‘blue-eyed knockout’ and threaten to ‘grind all up on me’?”

“Dunno, did I?” Dean winks, “Bet you’d like it. Not my fault you got a rockin’ bod.” He comes up behind Cas and, ignoring his younger brother’s gagging noise behind him, rests his hands on either side of Cas’ waist and moves his hips into him _just right_ , aw yeah, like all the way back in high school. Cas is bright red in the face and standing still as stone.

“Okay, okay,” Cas concedes, “We’ll go out. Now stop that.”

“Stop what?” Dean asks and nips a little at the exposed skin of Cas’ nape, above the collar of his green t-shirt.

Cas lets out a breath, “‘Grinding all up on me.’”

Sam starts to laugh, and Dean can’t help it. He starts to laugh too.

When a chuckle escapes Castiel’s lips, he pulls away and grins, “I got plans for you, angel.”

**X**

Castiel wears the scarf and hat that Jo made for him even though it’s a warm May night and Dean told him he looked like ‘a fucking hipster.’ He likes them. The yarn is soft and smells just a little bit like Jo did in Sioux Falls. He needs the comfort that they can provide, he thinks. Castiel hasn’t been to a _bar_ bar since before his tour in Paktika – which, he realizes, is an era of his life that he is rapidly moving further and further away from.

They wait for Gabriel to come home to have the night out, and even though Gabriel teases Dean about the community service and the mandatory counseling, Cas know that he’s pleased. If he isn’t happy for Dean, he’s at least happy for Cas.

The tops of three of his fingers are wrapped in Batman bandages because he started to rip at the skin around his cuticles in worry. Dean hasn’t noticed yet, and that’s good. Cas is a thirty one year old man, not an anxious teenager.

But he kind of feels like an anxious teenager when they all load up into Dean’s Impala, Sam and Dean in front, Gabriel and Castiel in back.

He hasn’t been exactly right since the session with Chuck. The memories feel all discombobulated in his brain, like somebody swiped a hand through the wires of his thoughts and left copper ends exposed and sparking. There’s a strangeness in thinking about his tour now. Moments that made him bristle seem distant and far away, and things he didn’t notice before sit at the forefront of his mind.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, and Cas looks away from the reflection of his tired eyes in the window glass, to Gabriel.

“If you need to bail, just tell me, kiddo,” he says. His expression is neutral but something in Gabe’s eyes has the maelstrom brewing in Cas’ brain settling just a little, like angry bees put to sleep with gas.

When he affords Gabriel a tight nod, this seems to be good enough.

They arrive at the establishment that Dean had in mind, a place that looks rickety on the outside that Cas has seen a couple times in passing, but never focused on. It’s called The Twister Saloon, declared in neon block letters across the top of the building, above the slope of the roof. He feels Dean’s hand touch between his shoulder blades as they walk toward the entrance, and can’t help the curl to his lips. He likes those little touches, the brushes of fingertips and palms that have little to do with sex and everything to do with staking a quiet, public claim of _mine._

Their party takes a table toward the back. Dean orders them all beers, though when he arrives with his selection, Gabriel wrinkles his nose and says, “Nasty. I call next round.”

“No complaints here, long as you pay for it,” Dean grins. Gabriel sticks his tongue out at Dean and Dean lifts his middle finger.

“Cas! Are you going to let him gesture to me like that?” Gabriel asks, faux-scandalized.

“It’s not Dean’s fault that you prefer ‘hipster beer,’” he says, air quotes around ‘hipster beer,’ which makes Dean snort and sling his arm around Cas’ shoulders.

Gabriel sputters, Sam laughs, and the night starts off without a hitch. Castiel feels more comfortable that he thought he would. The Twister Saloon smells like human sweat and leather and the tang of beer, but Dean’s smell cuts through it and his loud laughter muffles the noise of the other patrons.

Halfway through Gabriel’s round of beers, a slim woman in tight jeans and a leather jacket approaches the table. Castiel does a double-take – it’s Dean’s physician from the clinic.

“Doctor Barnes?” he says.

“Heya, cutie,” she greets, and winks.

“He’s spoken for, Pam,” Dean remarks.

“What about this one?” she asks, leaning her palms on the table and aiming a grin at Sam, who turns pink and stammers but can’t manage to get an entire sentence out of his mouth.

“That’s my brother,” Dean says, “And he’s got a girlfriend named Jessica, is what I think he’s trying to say over there.”

Sam aims a glare at Dean and a sheepish smile at Pam.

“I’m single,” Gabriel offers and raises his hand.

Cas lifts a brow at him.

“What?” he says, “Kali slept with that Baldur dude she works with so I have a freebie. And you, my lady, are one hell of a gal.”

Pamela lets out a long, low laugh and says, “All right. All right, how about I give you a test run on the dance floor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gabriel says, and makes Sam move out of the booth so that he can join the doctor.

Dean, Sam and Cas finish their drinks before they get up to join Pamela and Gabriel where they’re dancing beside some others, people wrapped up in bandanas with patches on their jackets and holes in their jeans. Dean’s surprised no one’s honed in on his twenty-year-old brother as drinking illegally. He may be tall enough to scrape ceilings, but he’s still got baby fat in places and looks about thirteen if you get him to smile the right way.

“Fuck me, I love this song,” Dean says, when the music changes.

Castiel can’t distinguish between this song and the others. It’s classic rock like Dean loves, and he has enough basic knowledge to identify that it is not Led Zeppelin.

“Dude,” Dean says, staring at Cas with a _you’re hopeless_ expression on his face, “Lynyrd Skynyrd? I Need You? Fuck it, you’re coming with me.” He grabs Cas’ hand at that and shuffles him out of their corner booth, toward the floor.

A rash of nerves flickers when Dean places his hands around Castiel’s waist, but no one seems to give them a second look. Dean looks like he belongs in this place tonight, anyway. He has his old, worn-out leather jacket thrown over his shoulders and an ancient black band t-shirt hugging his chest. The denim of his jeans is work-worn, and those bulky boots of his seem meant for this dance on the bar floor.

The song is slower than Castiel realized. He has terrible rhythm, but he sways where he needs to with Dean’s guidance.

A sheen of sweat and the dim bar light gives Dean’s tanned and freckled skin a rose-gold glow, the reflection of neon beer signs in his heavy-lidded green eyes. Cas’ heart jump starts in his chest, pumping blood like the boss caught it slacking on the job.

Is it too much to think that Dean’s trying to speak to him through that look? Dean often speaks more through the expressions on his face than the words on his lips, and there’s something in those eyes tonight that has Cas’ hands shaking and his palms sweating like a schoolboy before his first dance. There’s something in the crooked smile on Dean’s face that makes Cas’ mouth go bone-dry and his stomach tie into knots, something beyond his _let’s-get-out-of-here_ grin, beyond the smile that makes him look younger. This smile makes him look older, makes Cas want to wrap his arms around Dean and never let him go, not for anything.

Or maybe Cas is just waxing poetic about a beer-hazy curve of the lips.

“Got you, angel,” Dean murmurs, and winks lazily.

No. No, Castiel was right. That smile means everything. That wink means everything.

The song fades away, then. The new track sounds similar to the last, until a beat starts up. Cas’ head goes a little dizzy with the vocals and the heat of the bar. Sweat drips along his spine and his dry mouth feels now too dry.

Dean is clutching at him too hard.

The music is too loud.

It’s too hot.

Cas breaks away from Dean and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

He bursts into the room, cool relief touching him when he feels air conditioning and hears the rattle of it at the frosted window above ugly, brown restroom stalls. But the clatter of the cheap air conditioning unit starts to bleed in his mind, stretching like taffy from the biker bar in Lawrence to distant sounds of gunfire in Paktika, to the fright of the first incident Castiel ever had overseas, long before a suicide bomber killed his best friend.

No, now he’s huddled up too far from base, too old to be scared but terrified anyway as he waits for orders.

The bathroom door swings open, and Castiel launches himself at the intruder. He may be scared, but he’s not weak, never weak, not like Michael says. He’s strong, strong like his brothers. He closes his hands over the throat of the trespasser –

“Cas,” they say.

Oh. Oh, God.

“Angel, come on.”

Dean’s voice is hoarse when Castiel releases him.

Castiel backs up, away from Dean, steps back so far that he trips over his own fucked-up feet and falls back onto the yellowed tile of the floor. He’s slicked in sweat and panting, and it’s stupid, so stupid, and he almost hurt Dean. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls the knit hat from his head, holding it in his lap and twisting it in his hands.

Dean still stands across the room, but as soon as he meets Cas’ eyes he stalks forward and with purpose lowers himself beside Castiel on the floor.

“The floor is probably filthy,” Cas manages, voice thin.

“I’ve seen worse,” Dean says. He fidgets for a moment with the cuff of one sleeve of his leather jacket, and then rests his arm around Cas’ shoulders again, “What happened out there?”

“I’m not certain,” Cas admits, “One minute I was with you, and the next I wasn’t, and now I’m back again. It didn’t seem like a flashback, I just…wish I weren’t so broken.”

“Eh, so what?” Dean says, “So you’ve got some screws loose up north. Me too, man. You’re gettin’ it worked on.”

“I almost hurt you,” Cas says.

Dean shrugs at that, “Been hurt worse. Christ, it smells like shit in here.”

He’s right. The bathroom smells rancid, a pungent combination of clogged toilet and industrial cleaner.

“You know I got you, right?” Dean says, “Loose screws n’ all. I got you.”

Castiel manages a smile at that and lowers his eyes to the dirty grout between the floor tiles.

“I am happy to be had,” he settles on saying.


	19. Chilled to the Marrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Alastair, mentions of past rape and violence.
> 
> I also wanted to take a second to say thank you to you guys again. This week has been one of the toughest weeks of my life, and seeing the nice things you guys have said about my writing has been extremely therapeutic. You're all wonderful and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

**Chapter Track: Riverside – Agnes Obel**

**_Chilled to the Marrow_ **

Sam leaves two days later with the promise that he’ll be back mid-June for Alastair’s trial. Though his services as a lawyer won’t be needed, his support as a brother will, he says. Dean teases him but he’s glad that Sam’ll be back soon. Since their January reunion, it’s been harder and harder to say good bye when Sammy leaves.

This time he hugs him hard at the departures drop off, and Sam makes Dean promise that he’ll call. They linger longer than they have in a while, and Dean knows it’s because Sam knows all the bullshit that he went through in his teenage years to keep Sam’s life as close to normal as they could get it.

Sam goes in to hug Cas, too, but flips Gabriel off when he opens his arms. They all laugh. Cas wraps Sam in a second hug, though, a tighter hug. Something in the pit of Dean’s stomach cracks open, split right all the through the middle. His brother and his Cas – his partner – hugging and smiling like it’s a goddamn Brady family reunion.

Cas holds Sam’s shoulder, and his face goes serious as he speaks. Dean can’t hear what he says, but Sam nods and smiles, and claps Cas on the shoulder like nothing more serious than sports statistics has been said.

On the drive back to the apartment from the airport, Cas brushes his fingers against the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he’s grateful for the touch.

**X**

The month passes too quickly, in a haze of Dean’s improved latte art, shared beers and cartoons, evening jogs and newly prescribed strength workouts and fantastic sex, when they can fit it in. Cas’ treatments continue and though he always seems exhausted after a session, fewer nightmares have wriggled their way through in the middle of the night.

Castiel sleeps enough to be restless during the days now, so it surprises neither Gabe nor Dean when he returns from a cigarette break on the back deck with jaw set and eyes grave and says, “I think I’d like to attend school.”

When nobody says anything, he goes on, “I can still submit my application for the fall semester at KU, and the military will pay my expenses. I asked Chuck at my last appointment.”

“Cassie,” Gabe says, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“I know,” Cas says, “I know I’ll have to work harder on keeping my attacks under control and that I’ll need to make sure that I get enough sleep, and –”

“Kiddo, shut up,” Gabe says and holds up a hand, “It’s awesome, you hear me? Do you – do you know what you’re going in for? Like, what you’re gonna study?”

“He wants to teach high school English,” Dean says from the couch. Cas shifts his attention at that and feels a smile bubble up to the surface of its own accord. He seldom speaks of his aspirations, especially as Dean is so concerned with his own, but it figures that Dean would remember what he’s said about his desires, anyway.

Gabe makes a face, “Ew. Why? Uh, you know what, never mind. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Somebody’s gotta teach the fuckers, right?”

“Right,” Dean says, before Cas can speak up, “and he’s gonna be fucking awesome.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes, “You people are gross. How about I make us some celebration cookies, though? I’ve been hankering for some damn snickerdoodles.”

“Hell yeah,” Dean grins, “How ‘bout we bring some beer in? Beer n’ cookies. It’ll be a fucking gala up in here.”

So Gabriel throws beers at them, and they play Vera Lynn because it’s Cas’ celebration. The scent of baking dough and cinnamon soon permeates the apartment. They clink their beer bottles and Dean slings an arm around Cas’ shoulder. At one time this would have made him feel suffocated, he thinks, having two loud people close and laughing. Exhaustion would have seeped in and he would have retreated to his bedroom within minutes.

Perhaps this is a sign of recovery. A soft light of hope fills Castiel as he watches his brother wash down fresh-baked cookie with a swallow of ‘hipster beer’ and a grin on his face. Gabriel has gray in his hair now and crow’s feet crinkling at the ends of his eyes, but he’s never lost his youth.

And the man with his arm around Cas, his scent of plain soap and leather surrounding the both of them – he lost his youth far before he should have. Cas struggles to remember that Dean is only twenty four, twenty four and more exhausted than some soldiers that Castiel has met. He has no gray in his sandy-brown hair and no aching joints, but there’s age in his eyes.

The hope strengthens at the thought that they are all together, three men not-quite-right by typical standards. They are together and they are laughing as easily as any people with any number of histories behind him.

And that’s what that means. Hope.

**X**

But as with most things, the peace in the apartment fades with Sam’s return to Kansas. Dean wishes he could have a visit from Sam that came without the crap and baggage from when they were kids, without all the stuff Sam has to worry about in the courtroom.

In some ways, the relationship between Sam and Dean is as it always was, old before its time. They traded stolen and handmade Christmas presents before they should have known that Santa wasn’t real. They knew what too much liquor did to a man before they were taught in elementary level health class. They knew what it was to lose something, and never have it returned.

But they’re still here, and they’re still together. That’s got to count for something.

The air mattress is already inflated by the time that Dean brings Sam back to the apartment, and dressed in fresh bedding. Cas emerges from the bedroom when he hears them bang their way inside, hair damp from his shower, wearing only his plain white boxer shorts and one of Dean’s newer band t-shirts, something that makes Dean grin like an idiot.

“Sam,” Cas says, “It’s so good to see you. Are you hungry? Tired? I could brew some coffee.” He comes to where they stand at the threshold and hugs Sam. Sam hugs back and smiles the kind of boyish smile that reminds Dean of when they were kids, in those rare moments when they actually could be kids.

“I could go for some joe,” Dean says.

Sam agrees with a nod and kicks off his tennis shoes by the front door, “Yeah. Sure, that sounds good. You guys got any creamer left?”

“Gabe has some fruity-ass syrups,” Dean says, “Some hazelnut bullshit.”

“Kay,” Sam says, “I want ‘hazelnut bullshit’ in mine, then.”

Dean sneaks up behind Castiel in the kitchen while Sam settles into his designated place in the living room. He loops his arms around Cas’ middle and noses at his neck. He murmurs, “You look real nice in my clothes, angel.”

“Perhaps I should wear them more often,” Cas reasons.

“Perhaps all I wanna do is rip ‘em off of you,” Dean says back.

Cas turns to cock an accusatory brow, “I’d take you up on that offer, but your brother is in the other room, remember?”

“Always was such a cockblock,” Dean sighs, but it’s in good humor.

They enjoy coffee together and pointedly avoid speaking about Alastair’s oncoming trial. His social status and charges make his case far more high-profile, and though Dean hasn’t been dragged through the mud yet, he thinks he’s about to be. But okay, that’s fine. He’s been shit on before and he’ll get shat on again. He just has to fight his way through it, like he’s always done.

And with Sammy and Cas…maybe he won’t have to fight entirely alone.

**X**

The morning of Alastair’s trial appropriately arrives with thick, gray clouds obscuring the sun. Dean failed to sleep the night before, tossing and turning, and staring blankly at the ceiling when Castiel had had enough and rolled over to hold Dean in place. When he does finally sleep, it’s poorly, riddled with mixed visions of room three twenty, truck stops, shadowed alleyways and a red pickup truck. Dean wakes in a sweat far too early in the morning, but after his pathetic attempt at rest, he doesn’t feel like trying again.

Dean slips out of Cas’ grasp and exits to shower. He lingers long enough for the heat of the water to turn his skin pink and his scrubbing to make it raw. When he wipes a clean circle through the condensation on the mirror, the scars on his chest seem to stand out more than usual. A thick, heady sense of shame rolls over his spine like molasses, and in his ears the words _whore whore whore whore whore_ ring over and over.

He tears himself from his reflection in the mirror and yanks shorts up over his hips. He needs coffee. As always, he’d prefer whiskey, but if he wants to see Alastair led away in cuffs, he figures sobriety is the wiser choice.

With the litany of self-loathing still chanting in his mind, he treads to the kitchen. He tries to keep his footsteps light to stop from waking Sammy – it can’t be later than five in the morning – but as Dean goes through the motions of the morning, he hears the sound of sleepy shifting and heavy steps behind him.

“Morning,” Dean says. His voice is rough with exhaustion.

“Holy fuck dude, what happened to your back?”

Dean closes his eyes. Yeah, he forgot his baby brother hadn’t gotten to see all his pretty scars yet.

“Alastair,” he says, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t turn around to face Sam, either because he doesn’t want to look his brother in the eye or because he doesn’t want Sam to see the rest of the welts on his chest.

“Dude! This is pertinent information,” Sam says, flapping his arms in a frantic motion, “You should gotten pictures, the prosecution will need –”

“Will you calm the fuck down,” Dean says, and then he does turn, “They took pictures of everything when I got arrested.” He doesn’t mention that neither the scars on his chest or the scars on his back belong to that particular occasion with Alastair, only the thin, white scar on his ass from where Alastair’s ring cut into his skin.

Awesome. An entire courtroom will get to see Dean’s torn-up ass, and the bruises from where Alastair closed his hands around Dean’s neck.

“You…wanna talk about it?” asks Sam.

“No, Sam, I do not want to ‘talk about it,’” Dean says indignantly. It’s just his entire sordid existence going on display. Nothing serious.

“Jesus, touchy,” Sam says, holding up his hands in defense, “I was just making sure.”

They don’t speak after that. Dean fills two mugs with coffee and mixes sugar into one of them, bringing both back to the bedroom where Castiel is still flopped onto his side, mouth open and snoring softly. Dean sets Cas’ coffee on the bedside table and takes his own with him to the closet, where his Target duds hang in the back, waiting to be ironed and ready for another day in court.

When Cas wakes up, Dean is back out in the living room with Sam, both of their suits laid out in a spread across the couch, ironing board and Gabriel’s chair. He has his coffee in his hands and a tentative smile on his face, one that fades when he feels the tension buzzing through the room like electricity. Still, he ducks down to where Dean sits on the couch and presses a kiss to his temple. He says, “Thank you for bringing me coffee.”

“Yeah,” is all that Dean says back.

**X**

The courthouse is a fucking circus of epic proportions.

When they try to maneuver past the crowds of curious onlookers and pushy reporters, a million questions are flung their way.

“Who are you?”

“Are you a witness?”

“Are you going to testify today?”

When one of the assholes grabs at Dean’s shoulder, Dean makes a move to punch the sorry sap in his stupid face, but Sam yanks him back, wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulders. He says, “It’s okay. Just ignore them, man. You’re not the one on trial here. Just remember that.”

The reassurance doesn’t stop Dean from grousing, and nor does Cas’ palm on the small of his back. He asked Cas to come to this, and now he can’t tell if he regrets it or not. The touch on his back is good, solid, and it grounds him – but the fear of what they might bring up in the court room overtakes the comfort by storm.

Dean sets his jaw and walks in.

The courtroom already has several people inside, mainly people that Dean doesn’t recognize – but he does see the judge from his own proceedings, Rufus something-or-other, and the fireman that gave him a blanket and talked to him like he was more than a naked idiot they arrested on the floor of a hotel lobby. Victor, yeah. That’s the guy’s name. When he sees Dean enter the room, a flicker of recognition ignites in his eyes, and Dean lifts a tentative hand in greeting. Victor waves back.

Dean wishes he wasn’t as sick with nerves as he is, so dizzy with fear that Cas has to grip him tight to bring him out of the trance.

And then they bring in Alastair.

He looks the same as he ever has, though his entourage leads him in with cuffs on his wrists. He wears an expensive, designer suit, his hair sits combed neatly, and his shoes shine, reflecting the too-bright lights overhead.

Alastair turns his head as he walks the aisle between the courtroom benches.

His cold eyes meet with Dean’s and he smiles, a slimy sneer that pierces Dean through the gut.

He doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until Cas starts to rub his back and whispers in his ear. He’s whispering in Pashto, and Dean doesn’t understand a word of it, but it reassures him enough to look up from his hands and watch as Alastair is uncuffed and seated at the front of the courtroom.

As soon as all is settled, the defense and prosecution launch into their opening statements. Dean tunes them out and finds himself moving unconsciously further down into the bench below. Sam pulls him up and shakes his head. Dean can’t shrink, has to sit up straight, has to watch this all unfold and has to listen. Maybe just pretend to listen.

They don’t begin with Dean’s case. They start with the other case from Lawrence, another sorry kid working the streets for cash – but this one ended up dead. Shock and illness rocks Dean’s body when they reveal the face of the boy that was killed. He never knew the guy’s name, but they traded cigarettes sometimes and commiserated. When he disappeared, Dean figured he moved onto something better, maybe found a halfway house and some help.

But he was killed, and an image of his corpse is on display for everyone to see, naked and bruised in an empty lot just outside of town. There are fresh, red marks on his chest from a belt. They look just like the scars that Dean has before they healed.

From his left, he feels a hand cover his, and glances over to see his brother, face pale. He’s thinking just what Dean is, those wounds look awfully familiar and they’re damn lucky that the body isn’t Dean. The image hits too close to home. The boy is as skinny as Dean once was, living from day to day on cash from johns and the mercy of the world.

Dean swallows the knot in his throat.

Experts testify, forensic scientists and police officers. Victor takes the stand and describes his encounters with Alastair, all filled with barely-veiled innuendo suggesting Alastair was the perpetrator and believed himself invincible. He could not be taken down by the police, and his lawyers fought well now.

Something acidic boils just under the surface of Dean’s skin. This assclown believes nothing can touch him, believes he’s got a Get Out of Jail Free card tucked up under his sleeve and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.

But Dean _can_. And he _will._ The fear of his call to the stand remains, but sits suffocated under a new determination to send this stupid fuck where he belongs, to the most isolated cell in the most dangerous prison, in the ugliest place in the world.

When it’s time for Dean to testify, Sam claps his shoulder and Cas squeezes his hand. He gives them a reassuring nod in return – he can do this. It’s gonna fucking blow, but he’ll do it. These court proceedings are the last time Alastair will see anything outside of a prison.

Dean puts his hand on the Bible and swears he’ll tell the truth, and then it’s happening. It’s all unfolding in front of him. The prosecution gets their go at him first, and the young DA begins her speech with, “Mr. Winchester, I understand you worked in the sex trade for several years?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answers, fisting his hands in his lap and grinding his teeth to keep himself steady.

“And you serviced a client in this courtroom?” she continues.

Dean nods and repeats, “Yes ma’am.”

“Could you point him out for us, please?” she requests.

Only then does Dean dare lift his eyes away from the spot on the wall he decided was his to focus on, and moves his gaze to Alastair. His lips curl up in that ugly sneer, and Dean swears, it’s straight out of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, it’s so foul. He takes a breath to steady himself and points to Alastair, hand steadier than he imagined it would be.

She gives him a nod, and somehow this affirmation is somewhat reassuring. He’s answering the questions the right way to get this shithead canned.

“Please describe what took place during your meetings with Alastair Elliot,” she says.

Dean clears his throat and shifts uncomfortable. The sweat on his neck is staring to make his cheap Target button-up stick to his skin, chaffing. He licks his lips and glances up, out at the contents of the courtroom. From their seats, Sammy and Castiel watch him with careful eyes. When Sam sees him looking, he gives Dean a thumbs up.

“H-He would call me,” Dean starts, and curses the stumble over his words, “Or I would call him. If I needed the cash. We’d meet at that fancy joint over by the school, always in room three twenty. When I got there, I got naked. He had me fold up my clothes and set ‘em near the door, then he’d put the money on top of them,” he fills his lungs before he goes on, “Then I’d…he’d ask me to get up on the bed. On my hands and knees, usually. He liked to hurt me.”

“Hurt you how, Mr. Winchester?” the DA asks, and while there is an edge to her voice, the look in her eyes is something softer. Pity. Goddamn, he hates being pitied.

“Depends,” Dean says, “He liked to use his belt. Sometimes his hands. Sometimes other things.”

The DA gives another nod and turns to address the jury, “I’m going to show you a series of pictures of Mr. Winchester, taken at the police station following his and Mr. Elliot’s arrest in January.”

Dean closes his eyes, but he hears a soft intake of breath at whatever images she’s got up. He knows what it’ll be. Bruises at his throat. Blood on his ass. All those fucking scars, covering him like litter in a trashyard.

“You will note his scars bear a striking resemblance to the markings on our previous victim,” says the DA, and she returns her attention to Dean, “Are the marks on your chest and back a product of Mr. Elliot’s abuse?”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean quietly answers.

The defense stands at this and declares, “Objection, your honor. This testimony is irrelevant to the facts of the case.”

“Overruled,” the judge says, and the defense attorney sits with a scowl affixed to his ugly fucking mug.

“Can you tell me what Mr. Elliot uses to make these marks, Mr. Winchester?” the DA asks.

“A leather belt, ma’am,” Dean says.

The district attorney goes through a series of arbitrary questions after that, and Dean answers in turn, clenching and unclenching his fists, sweating like a stuck pig into his stupid shirt, and wishing he was anyplace else but hear, with hundreds of eyes burning on him as the DA dissects his past and lays it open for everyone to see.

“Now, Mr. Winchester, I’d like you describe the events leading up to and the night of January sixteenth,” she says.

Dean clears his throat, “Uh. Well, I got into an argument with my – my partner, though I guess he wasn’t my partner at the time…um. I got to feelin’ bad, ‘cause I’d been lazy about sending my brother money for school. So I called up Alastair and we set up a time in room three twenty. I got there and did the usual, took off my clothes and folded ‘em up. I was late, though, so when I get up on the bed he tells me I’ve gotta be punished.”

His face is burning. His eyes hurt. His temples ache.

But Dean swallows and keeps talking.

“He just starts beating my ass, and I realize I don’t wanna be there. I wanna be back with Cas.”

“Who is ‘Cas’?”

“Castiel,” Dean coughs, “Novak. My partner. We were just friends then, though.”

“Anyway, I try and get away, and he tells me something like ‘you’re mine,’ or whatever, calls me a whore, and I just – I fucking run for it,” he says, and flushes further, “My brain just shuts down and I bolt, man, bare-ass naked. He’s running after me, and when we make it out into the lobby he catches up, knocks me on my back and puts his hands around my throat. Thought I was gonna die.”

“And that’s when the police arrived?” asks the DA.

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says.

The prosecution rests and Dean lets out a soft breath, only to realize that the circus ain’t over yet – he’s got Alastair’s defense to worry about. The defense attorney is a middle-aged guy with gray hair, and that shouldn’t be so damn intimidating. It’s the eyes, Dean thinks. The guy has golden eyes, and they pierce through Dean like a well-whetted sword.

“Mr. Winchester,” he begins.

Dean’s legs tremble underneath the safety of the stand.

“How long have you been in prostitution?” he asks.

“Since I was fourteen, sir,” Dean says. Another intake of breath from the crowd.

“And how old are you now?”

“Twenty four, sir.”

“So you’re experienced in the field,” he says, a smile shifting his face.

“I suppose so, sir,” Dean agrees.

“Now with…mm, ten years of prostitution under your belt, would you say it’s possible that your scars could have come from another client, Mr. Winchester?” he asks.

“Well, I-I guess they –”

“Objection!” exclaims the DA, “Your honor, the defense is leading the witness.”

“Sustained. Please move on, Mr. Azazel,” the judge asserts.

Dean doesn’t like where _Mr. Azazel_ moves onto. They move from his scars to his history, and he makes Dean talk about every detail of his life that he’d rather keep private, that he never wanted anybody to know about him. And now everyone in this courtroom knows everything, know about his first twenty in exchange for a handjob, know about the night in the red pickup when he was fifteen, know about his fallout with his family and very sordid moment he wishes he hadn’t had.

When he finally climbs down from the stand his whole body shakes, exhausted with the effort of squeezing out the words that were required of him. Court adjourns for the day with the promise of returning the next, which is everything that Dean does not want.

As soon as they step outside of the courthouse Dean lets out the breath that he’d been holding in.

“How are you holding up?” asks Sam.

“Like shit, Sammy, how do you think?” Dean snaps.

“Sorry, I just – yeah. Sorry,” Sam says.

“Damn straight you’re sorry,” he says, and throws the keys to the Impala at his brother. He doesn’t trust himself behind the wheel like this.

**X**

Dean pulls off his tie when they arrive back at Gabriel’s apartment and says, “Sammy, you’re probably gonna wanna get out of here.”

“What? Oh,” he says, and glances between Cas and Dean, “ _Oh_. Okay. I’ll uh…text me when you’re done, I guess.”

“Yup,” Dean says, “See you.”

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs a beer and a container of leftover pasta from the fridge before he waves, and ducks out.

Dean wets his lips with the tip of his tongue before he turns to Cas and says, “I need you to fuck me.”

Castiel doesn’t argue or ask Dean if he’s sure. He just nods and closes the space between them to bring Dean into a kiss. The touch of his lips is soft, but it isn’t what Dean needs. He needs heat, he needs friction, he needs anger and relentlessness. He pries Cas’ mouth open with his tongue and yanks his closer by the collar of his dress shirt. Their tongues and teeth clash and through their slacks Dean can feel the hard press of growing arousal.

Dean fumbles with Cas’ tie and throws it aside, stumbling over tiny pearl-sheen buttons on his white shirt, and throwing it back over Cas’ shoulders. He kisses Cas’ pale, hot skin, tonguing over his collarbones and throat. He sinks his teeth into the meat of Cas’ shoulder, and a strangled moan escapes Cas’ lips.

“A-Ah, Dean,” Cas gasps, “Where do you – where do you want –”

“Couch,” Dean murmurs, “Couch.”

Cas vanishes for a moment, and Dean takes the opportunity to kick off his shoes and undoes his belt, letting his dress pants puddle on the carpet at his feet. No sooner does the soft _clink_ of the belt sound against the floor does Dean feel a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong, shoving him down against the cushions. Dean lowers into a kneeling position, and Cas manhandles him, pulling up his legs to yank off his underwear.

“Need it,” Dean whines, “Need your dick, angel, need it in me.” He needs it to hurt. Needs to feel it, needs to feel it for days, that burn that reminds Dean that Castiel was there, Castiel fucked him, to Castiel he belongs.

“You can have it when I want you to have it,” Cas says lowly against the shell of Dean’s ear. The deep rumble of his voice sends a shockwave down Dean’s spine, a shiver that makes him cant his ass up in the air, rubbing back against Cas. His slacks are still on, and there’s something way too fucking sexy about feeling the slide of the fabric against his naked ass, and beyond it Cas’ erection.

The pop of a cap pierces through the sound of their panting. Dean hangs his head and grips the back of the couch, balls heavy between his legs.

Cas doesn’t start him out slow. He dives in, pressing two slick fingers into Dean’s opening, fucking him with his fingers, opening him up and getting him ready and making him sore already. Dean moves his hips back against the touch and doesn’t give a shit that the noises that are coming out of his mouth should be embarrassing.

“You enjoy that, don’t you?” Cas hums, “You love it when I fuck you with my fingers.”

Dean nods, nods helplessly, “Love those fingers, angel.”

And as soon as they came, Castiel’s fingers are gone. Dean feels cold and open, and he needs it, needs Cas.

Behind him he hears the sound of a belt opening and a zipper being pulled down. There’s the slick sound of the lube, and then the hot press of the head of Cas’ cock on his hole. Cas is teasing, but Dean can’t take it anymore. He slides back just enough to swallow the tip of Cas inside his body.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cas says.

One hard thrust, and he’s fully sheathed.

“C’mon,” Dean cries, “Just – fuck me.”

Cas obeys, closing his hands over either side of Dean’s body as he slides out, and rams back in. It’s what Dean needs, everything he needs. He doesn’t need the gentle touches and whispered words that he’s needed before. He needs the tension fucked from him. He needs to be fucked so well that he loses his mind, that Cas drives every thought from his head.

The tempo of Cas’ hips is hypnotic, hard and steady. Heavy breaths and the chant of _Dean Dean Dean_ punctuate the slap of skin and the slide of sweat.

“God, yeah,” Dean keens, “You fuck me. Harder, c’mon. I can take it.”

Cas obliges. He shoves Dean’s shoulder down, forcing his face down into the couch cushions, and pulls his body back with every thrust forward.

He’s gonna die. Dean is going to die here, and he’s going to die happy and well-fucked.

It takes only the close of Cas’ fist around Dean’s cock and a few harried flicks of his wrist for Dean to yell – actually _shout_ – Cas’ name into the couch cushions and come all over them. Cas keeps fucking him, driving his hips against Dean, sweating and grunting. It’s primal and angry and perfect, and when Cas’ hips stutter and the warmth of his come fills Dean, he grins, clenching up around Cas and milking him for all he’s worth. Cas collapses against him, catching himself with his hands pressed into the cushions on either side of Dean’s head.

It isn’t until their bodies disconnect that Dean notices that both of them remain half-dressed: Cas has his shoes on and his slacks around his ankles, and Dean’s dress shirt isn’t even unbuttoned. He laughs, loving the wild, sated look in Cas’ blue eyes.

“Dean,” he says, and the way he says it _does things_ to Dean. Like, fuck.

“Dean, I –” he gnaws on his lower lip and his gaze flicks down. When he glances back up and meets Dean’s eyes, the words that fall from his lips are the least expected, “I love you.”

Dean stares.

“I...You?” Dean manages.

Cas doesn’t break his gaze, “You don’t have to say it back. I just thought it pertinent information. I love you, very much.”

A wash of feeling wracks down through the pieces underneath Dean’s ribcage. Words catch in his throat and he can’t get anything out, not even his own exhales. He closes his hands over Cas’ well-muscled shoulders to pull him into a long, thorough kiss.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and nods, “Yeah.”

**X**

Sam twirls noodles around the cheap fork he grabbed out of the dishwasher and stuffs a cold bite into his mouth. It’s in this position that Gabriel finds him, approaching with fabric grocery bags hanging from either fist.

He lifts one brow, “Why are you out here with my food?”

Sam swallows, “Do you really want to know?”

Gabriel studies him, and realization slides into place, “Oh…gross.”


	20. Grace Can Start a Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Alastair 
> 
> Again, thank you guys for all the support/comments/kudos/bookmarks etc. I am still suffering through world's worst week and it means a lot.

**Chapter Track: Baptized by Fire – Spinnerette**

**_Grace Can Start a Fire_ **

On the second day of the trial, a barrage of questions on his sexual history meets Dean with the small crowd of reporters. Sam loops his arm around Dean’s shoulders and levels a prize-winning smile at the crowd, an official-sounding voice emerging from his mouth to say, “Mr. Winchester is not answering questions at this time.”

Hell, Sammy’s only pre-law right now, and he’s the best damn lawyer that Dean’s ever met. The kid will make a killing. He’d bet anything on it.

After Dean texted him last night that he was safe to return to the apartment, Sam tried to talk about the court proceedings. Dean knew he would, and he ignored the conversation like they both knew he would. Instead of talking, they ordered in Chinese and drank the beer that Gabriel brought home with him from the liquor store, and watched episodes of The Twilight Zone that Castiel picked out. At the end of the night, Dean locked the bedroom door and tucked himself up against Cas’ chest. Neither of them said anything about that – the way he liked it.

And now they’re back in courtroom mode. Dean silently prays over and over again in his head that he won’t be needed on that fucking stand again.

When they take their seats on the bench and wait for Alastair to enter, Cas tucks his hand into Dean’s and squeezes.

He studies the jury and wonders what kind of people they are. There’s a sharp-nosed old broad that looks like she could cut out his heart and eat it for breakfast, a soft-cheeked Hispanic guy that couldn’t be over twenty-five, a stocky man in an expensive suit…he wishes he could read their minds, wishes there was more he could do than relive every shit thing that’s happened to him up on the stage that is the courtroom.

But as with yesterday, he sits between Sam and Cas, and even with his leg shaking and his free hand fidgeting, he feels between this way, boxed in by two people he knows have his back.

Today Alastair takes the stand, and the press is wild outside, attacking folks walking into the courthouse like rabid dogs.

Alastair enters the courtroom with his entourage same as yesterday, though this time Dean pointedly keeps his eyes away from Alastair’s face. He doesn’t want to see that smile, feel the pinpricks of cold on the back of his neck that come with it.

The proceedings take off without a hitch. Dean makes himself look forward instead of at his cheap dress shoes like he’d rather do. The prosecution begins with questioning on the Lawrence murder, of that poor fucking kid that Dean sort-of-almost knew. He listens without hearing, really, lets his mind wander to what they’re gonna do for dinner tonight and if he and Cas are gonna hit up Cloud Nine for some new reading material after they get the hell out of this shithole.

That, and the fact that Cas loves him.

The thought makes Dean’s grip on Cas’ hand tighten, and Cas glances over at him curiously. Dean offers an awkward half-smile to this.

He can count the number of people that have ever loved him with under ten fingers – his mom, Sammy, Bobby, Ellen and Jo…maybe his dad, sometimes. Though John didn’t love him more than the bottle in the end, he supposes. And now Cas? Cas loving him means he’ll have to start using two hands to count the people that love him.

Huh. That’s not so bad.

“Can you describe the nature of your relationship with Dean Winchester?” the prosecution asks, and Dean tears his eyes sharply away from Cas’ face, from his serious blue eyes and the oddly-tilted lips.

Alastair’s expression is neutral as he replies, “I paid him for sexual favors.”

“And how did you meet Mr. Winchester?” she asks.

“I’d gone to visit Elysium –”

“Elysium,” the DA muses, “That’s on the rougher side of town. There are gentlemen’s clubs nearer than that.”

Because he can find cheap hookers that don’t mind bruises and a little blood. Or maybe because he wanted more than that, because he wanted to find somebody to murder. The twisted corpse of the boy in the vacant lot surfaces to the forefront of Dean’s mind, the marks and tears from Alastair’s belt stark on his skin.

Underneath his button-up, Dean’s scars burn.

“I like the atmosphere,” Alastair drawls, and looks down at the young DA like she’s a bug and he’d like nothing more than to squish her under his Armani shoes. He goes on, “Dean approached me as I was waiting for my car to be brought around. He asked me if I’d like to ‘be shown a good time.’ I agreed.”

Alastair describes their history and mentions that the agreement that Dean would be hurt was always laid out. Dean wants to shout at him, wants to say that no, it was not.

But the truth is that it was.

Alastair explicitly said that he liked inflicting pain, and Dean said that was okay so long as the asshole paid for the damage he did. And later on, when Alastair got rough without saying a word beforehand, Dean knew the guy would lay the extra cash out with his clothes. Dean _knew_.

Shame spears through him, shame and the feeling of filth like nothing he’d felt yesterday. Because at least yesterday, yesterday Dean could say that what happened with Alastair was unexpected. But it wasn’t unexpected, was it? Dean knew what he was getting into, he was stupid and shameless and willing. Alastair was right, Michael was right – all those faceless johns that dirty-talked when they fucked him were right. He was a whore.

For the first time that day, Dean lowers his eyes and fixates on his shoes. Cheap shoes for a cheap guy. Throw a little cash at him and you can fuck him, no question. That’s the kind of man Dean was. Cheap.

Then the DA rolls around to the night they were arrested. She asks how it happened, and Alastair elaborates that Dean came to him. Dean had. He’d done that. He’d come to Alastair like a desperate, twisted slut.

His legs are shaking again.

His brother is hearing all of this.

Sammy knows exactly how stupid his brother is, exactly how desperate, how pathetic.

“ – I admit that I lost temper. Dean stole my money, you must understand. He told me that the transaction was no longer valid, took the cash I laid out for him, and left,” Alastair says.

Dean goes from shame to fury and tears out Cas’ grip, “That’s bullshit, motherfucker, and you know it!”

Judge Turner slams down his gavel and barks, “Sit down, Mr. Winchester. If you have another outburst I will have you escorted out.”

Sam pulls him down with a harshly whispered, “ _Dean_.”

“He’s lying, Sammy,” Dean says. Whore and thief he may be, but he never stole anything that wasn’t asking to be stolen. Taking money from a client whose needs he didn’t fulfill was dishonest, and Dean Winchester was not a dishonest man.

“I know that,” Sam says, “And everyone else does, too. Just be quiet.”

Dean licks his lips and nods, and prays that his little brother is right about this.

“There was no cash found at the scene in the lobby,” the DA says, “The only money located was the cash placed on top of Mr. Winchester’s clothing in the hotel room.”

“He only managed to take half of it before I tried to catch him,” Alastair shrugs.

“And where would Mr. Winchester have hidden three hundred dollars? He was naked when the police arrived,” the DA remarks.

Alastair levels a haughty stare at Dean, “Why don’t you ask Mr. Winchester?”

Dean goes cold, but nobody asks anything of him. The DA moves her line of questioning to something new, and when Alastair’s lies don’t match up, she rests and takes her seat. It’s when that Azazel asshole stands and questions that the shitshow really begins.

They paint Dean as a greedy sociopath, a prostitute that Alastair Elliot fell in love with and Dean denied, only in it to steal his money and step on his heart – what the fuck? Azazel drags out Dean’s past, like flipping the lid of a trunk that’s been tucked in the attic for too many years, blowing the dust off of everything past Dean’s eighteenth birthday. The shoplifting, the petty thefts, the prostitution – the big one, the burglary – all get put under the proverbial microscope for the jury.

Dean can feel Sam tense beside him, can feel the anger radiating off of him in droves. When he looks at where Sam had his hands folded in his lap, he now sees two white-knuckled fists.

Dean reaches up and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, a silent ‘it’s okay.’

In Azazel’s script, Dean is an awful human being, the kind of villain Hollywood wouldn’t touch, a true villain.

When Alastair comes off the stand, Judge Turner allows a brief recess, enough for Dean to take a piss and grab some water, and convince Sammy that homicide isn’t a bright idea.

“I’m so _pissed_ ,” Sam says, when they exit.

“It’s all right,” Dean assures him, “That’s what you said, remember? Dude, it’ll be all right.”

“How can you just say that?” Cas interjects, “They turned you into this – this monster. You’d never do any of those things.”

“Right?” Sam snaps, “Oh my god, I hope the jury eats that fucker for breakfast. I am so angry.”

“Guys,” Dean says, “Will you put your dicks away? You said this would happen, Sammy. You said they’d drag me through the mud and it’s what they’re doing. And hey, whatever, some of it’s true, so fuck it.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam says, at the same time that Cas bites out, “None of that is true, Dean.”

“The part about me being willing. That’s true. He told me he was gonna fuck me up and I still said okay. Okay? You two real pleased with yourselves? It was pretty fairly established I’m an idiot and a whore, or whatever. I need to go take a piss.”

Without another word, Dean turns on his heel and stalks away toward the restroom, which is too crowded, and there are too many eyes on him when he undoes his fly at the line of urinals and lets go. He bites down on his lip, hard, and avoids looking at anybody, wishing that for a fucking second, he could just be alone.

“Kid,” he hears, and jerks his head up to see the firefighter from the scene at the urinal beside him, the one that waved at him yesterday. Victor something-or-other.

Dean closes his eyes and exhales, “What do you want, man?”

“I just want you to know that I don’t buy what that Azazel is selling,” he says, “I don’t know about anybody else, but I think the defense is all theatrics. Look, I don’t know you, but I haven’t heard a peep about you since January, and look twenty times better than when I saw you last. Looks like you’re cleaning up your act, and I respect that. Men like Alastair, they never clean up. They like doing bad ‘cause they’re bad people. You seem like you made bad choices because you didn’t have another way to go about things.”

Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but this has him struck dumb. He tucks himself back into his underwear and zips up. He coughs and says, “Uh. Thanks.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing now, if you’re out of the game?” asks Victor.

“Saving up for school,” he says, and avoids looking Victor in the eye, “Working at this coffee place for now, uh…my partner’s brother owns the joint. But I’m gonna – gonna try for fire and rescue.”

“No kidding?” Victor’s brows lift high on his forehead, “Where are you looking at training?”

“KU, the program they have there…dunno, it looks nice,” Dean says, awkward and way too self-conscious to be having this conversation in the dudes’ restroom, of all the places, “Cas n’ me – I mean, Cas and I – we do work outs and stuff together. I, uh. I dunno. Maybe it’s stupid. Wanted to – never mind.”

“Don’t you ‘never mind’ me, kid. You wanted to do what?” Victor says.

“Look, I wanted to be in fire and rescue since I was about yea high, and that’s dumb, I know a lot of little boys wanna be firefighters or whatever, but it’s fire that took out my mom, and – yeah, that’s it,” Dean sighs.

A strange smile curls against Victor’s lips, and he nods, “Well. I look forward to seeing your application on my desk when the time comes, then.”

Dean cocks his head, “What? Why would it –”

“Fire _chief_ , kid. Fire chief,” Victor says, and offers up an enigmatic grin before putting himself back in his pants and making his way to the sinks.

**X**

Dean pointedly refuses to speak to either Sam or Cas until they’re done with their pissing contest over Dean’s opinion on Alastair and his own willingness to go along with the dickhead’s desires. They reseat themselves on the same bench and don’t talk. Cas doesn’t reach for Dean’s hand this time, simply assessing him instead.

So Dean blows all the air of his lungs and snatches Cas’ hand before he can rethink the decision. Cas’ fingers are warm and rough against his. Good. Grounding.

There’s little left to be heard. More expert witnesses are called to testify, including the officer that processed Dean after he got arrested, that photographed his injuries and swabbed some stuff and brought him back to be questioned. There’s something surreal about hearing your injuries compared to the damage done on a dead man, and with nothing but clinical, professional detachment.

_It is in my professional opinion that the injuries on the two victims match._

And in his mind’s eye, Dean is in that empty lot, body all twisted up like the poor kid’s was, scars not yet scars but fresh marks, pale with death.

He wouldn’t have gotten to see Sam again if he’d gotten killed that night. He never would have slept with Cas or worked at Trickster. Never would have hugged Bobby again, worn Jo’s ugly knitting, or eaten Ellen’s cooking.

What if – what if he’d given up that night instead of making a break for it? He could be dead like that kid, and for the first time in his life, it matters to him not because his death would mean not being there for Sam, but because it would mean _not being there for himself._ He’d have died days before his twenty fourth birthday, before he ever heard Cas say the words _I love you_ , before he perfected his skill in latte art or read The Martian Chronicles.

“Are you okay?” Cas whispers against his ear.

To this, Dean responds with a brush of his lips to Cas’ rough cheek. Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s fingers in return.

The prosecution and defense make their closing statements, each filled with strong story-telling and plays on truth, each convincing. And when the jury leaves to deliberate, the verdict is no more certain than the result of a coin toss – at least from where Dean is standing.

He just closes his eyes and prays.

For a nonreligious man, he’s been doing a lot of praying lately.

**X**

The deliberation is one of the shortest Sam has ever been in the courtroom for, he says. The jury is out for only a few minutes over the two hour mark. When they return, every face remains set on neutral, so trained on emotionlessness that it makes Dean’s blood jump in his veins.

This isn’t just a verdict, he wants to shout at them. This is his life. If Alastair goes free, he’ll have to watch his back, watch every move that he makes, look over his shoulder with every step outside of Gabriel’s apartment. And he can’t drag Cas into that, but he already has. He’s dragged Cas and Sammy into this crock of shit, and there’s no bailing them out.

A headache threatens at the front of Dean’s temples, and he massages them as the jury fills their seats.

The sharp-nosed woman stands and reads, “We, the jury, find the defendant, Alastair Elliot…”

The blood beats through Dean’s body like tribal drums, his ears roaring, his gut churning. He’s sweating again and it makes his shirt stick to his back, stick to the scars still burning on his skin.

“… _guilty_ of the charges of assault in the first degree, attempted murder, and murder in the first degree.”

The courtroom roars to life. Azazel shouts a curse at the jury and throws a manila folder across the courtroom, an action that sends the cops into action, dragging him back and out as the onlookers whisper and gasp. Judge Turner bangs his gavel down and snaps out, “Order, goddamnit! _Order_.”

Dean can’t move.

Alastair is guilty.

 He doesn’t know if he should hug Sammy or Cas first, so he loops one arm around each of them and tugs them in, stupid with happiness or relief, or something good, whatever it is.

The knowledge that this shit is _over_ doesn’t even breach his mind, just hangs on the periphery of it. He can’t believe it – that once in his life he gets thrown a freaking bone, and instead of being stalked and taken down by some wealthy psycho, he can live out his life in peace. He doesn’t have to worry anymore.

The happy cocktail of emotions doesn’t fade, even as Alastair spits at him as he’s escorted from the courtroom in cuffs.

“They did it,” Sam says. A helpless chuckle escapes his throat when Dean won’t let him go, “It’s over, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that, so as they leave the courtroom, he just grins and suggests that they buy some booze and celebrate. Maybe a celebration is what he needs, some alcohol to wash out the confused brew in his head. God, he feels like a rag, all limp and wrung-out, and he needs a little something good to get him back up and running again.

At the liquor store, they buy regular beer for Dean and hipster beer for Gabriel, and some other expensive shit that Cas insists upon having. And when they get to the counter, Benny grins back at them and drawls out, “Havin’ a party, huh? Somebody get married or somethin’? You got on all those nice duds.”

Sam and Castiel glance to Dean to ask permission to talk about it, and whatever, Dean’s spit out so much crap about his history in the last few days, he just says, “Nah, we just got to see the guy that tried to gank me get on death row. No wedding, but something to celebrate, that’s for damn sure.”

Benny looks a little stricken at that, but then nods and smiles, “Hell yeah, brother, that’s something to celebrate. You boys have fun, you hear?”

And as they take their bags and head to the front door, Benny adds, “Make good choices!” and winks.

Cas replies, “We will,” a little uncertainly.

Sam laughs and Dean claps Cas on the back with a soft, “He was joking, baby.”

Cas rolls his eyes as if to say ‘yeah, okay, of course,’ and murmurs, “I like your nicknames for me.”

Sam makes a gagging noise and yanks open the back door of the Impala, climbing in with a, “You guys are gross.” It’s said with affection, though, and Dean can see a crooked little smile on his brother’s face in the rearview mirror.

Instead of rolling straight home, Dean takes the Impala to Trickster. The art’s been changed out since Dean last worked – he’s had a number of days off for Alastair’s trial – spring-themed pieces replaced with ink prints splashed with watercolors. Most of the prints are nudes, or profiles of women. It’s exactly Gabe’s kind of thing.

“Boys,” Gabriel greets, but without his usual grin, “I’ve been checking my phone but the place has been kind of crazy today. I think the summer students have midterms or some shit, ‘cause there have been like, a million zombies in KU hoodies here.”

Sam says, “Dude, he’s done for. The booked him for everything. He’s sitting on fucking death row.”

“ _Hollllaaa_ ,” Gabriel replies, and then shouts out at the coffee shop, “Hey kids, Alastair Elliot got canned, and you know what that means? Free coffee, motherfuckers.”

The quiet of Trickster goes to uproar in a split second, as college students line up behind the three of them, all some combination of delighted and confused.

Gabriel laughs and says, “Hey, you boys don’t start the party without me, okay?”

“Roger that,” Dean replies, and Gabriel salutes them as they make a break for it, leaving him with the crowd of coffee-hungry zealots in Jayhawks blue.

**X**

The sun has gone down by the time that Gabriel returns to the apartment, and the game of cards between Sam, Cas and Dean is interrupted not only by Gabe himself but the entirety of the people on staff before closing at Trickster, Kali, Benny from the liquor store, and Missouri, who has a casserole in her hands when she crosses the threshold.

What was a quiet, content night goes straight to something in the opposite direction, with loud music and laughter. Gabriel mixes drinks and they share the food that Missouri brought. Charlie lays out some game that only she and her girlfriend Gilda seem interested in, but some others play anyway.

Somehow, the neighbors end up in the apartment offering food and booze as tickets to the party.

The beers that Dean’s been downing since they arrived back home from the courthouse help smooth out his feathers a little, but he’s tense and suffocated with everyone around. Christ, when he was a teenager, he’d have been right at home here, but a twenty four he feels older than fucking time, wanting nothing more than to bury himself under some covers and have a quiet night without the heat of a dozen and a half other bodies crowding him, without raucous laughter shaking his head like an earthquake that’s way too goddamn high on the Richter scale.

Thing is, Dean should be happy. He should want to party more than anybody. The dude that put the most scars on his body is behind bars, and he’ll never be allowed to put scars on anybody else, ever again.

But that’s not how fucking life works, is it? There’s no closure, just the selfish wish that this could have happened before Dean ever met fucking Alastair, before he decided to approach the guy in the designer suit. Before they traded cell phone numbers, and Dean came to his beck and call like hopeful, beaten puppy.

Dean mumbles some excuse about needing to go to the bathroom and abandons his half-empty bottle of beer where it sits beside Sam. Instead of the bathroom, he slips into the bedroom. The door muffles the noise in the living room, enough that Dean can think more than two thoughts without his brain threatening to explode out of his skull.

He peels his t-shirt up over his head and casts his jeans someplace across the room before he crawls into bed.

Dean rolls onto Cas’ side instead of his own, and feels a little less stupid and murderous. He can’t even identify the tangle of feelings pulsing under his skin, just wishes that they’d go away and take the fucking headache they caused with them. So he closes his eyes and wills them away, and even if that doesn’t work, there’s no more loud music and loud people, all happy about something that they don’t even understand.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears the bedroom door creak open. The song playing outside has changed a couple of times, but the volume hasn’t died down, and he doesn’t think anybody noticed that he went missing.

“Dean?”

Except Cas, of course.

“Yeah,” he says from his place on Cas’ side of the bed, “Sorry. I’ll move.”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel replies, and closes the door behind him.

Dean opens his eyes to watch Cas as he divests himself of his jeans and moves to detach his prosthetic, setting the limb and sleeve aside in their place against the bedside table and wall. He crawls up behind Dean when he finishes and drapes one strong arm around Dean’s middle, moving the other to rest in Dean’s hair, stroking down to the base of his neck and back up again.

Good ol’ Cas. Always knowing when something’s wrong and always knowing how to handle it.

Sure, Sam know when Dean’s pissed about something, but he always tries to convince Dean to talk about it, always insists that he can’t keep everything inside and that it’s unhealthy. But Cas, Cas likes to keep quiet about things to, doesn’t like to overshare his hurts.

“It’s been a tiring day,” Cas reasons, the low rumble of his voice like music to the ears.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “It’s like – I’m glad, right? Real fuckin’ happy. Good. The asshole deserves what he got served. But I’m pissed that shit had to happen to me before he got put away. He killed like three guys. Three guys just like me, and they could only nail him for one. Fucking sucks, is all.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that. It’s another thing Dean doesn’t understand about him, but appreciates. Don’t need to say a word, just keep touching him, just keep close.

“Sometimes,” Cas finally says, “I suppose that’s how I think about my tour in Afghanistan. I wasn’t supposed to see action the way I did and I just…wish it could have happened to somebody else.”

Before Dean can respond, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. Sam’s voice calls, “Hey, can I come in?”

“Go for it,” Dean calls back.

Sam slips into the bedroom and leans up against the door. He studies the two of them, his eyes slipping down to the scarred stump of Cas’ right leg. His face twists, an odd little expression gracing it, not unlike the face he’d make while he did homework at Bobby’s kitchen table.

“You look like you just found shit on your shoe,” Dean says, “What’s up?”

Sam rolls his eyes and says, “I just noticed you guys were gone. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I’m fine. It was just – loud.”

“You looked kind of out of it,” Sam nods. He studies Dean and Cas again before he steps further into the bedroom, sitting beside the stacks of science fiction books on the floor. He brings his knees up, against his chest, an awkward-looking position with Sam’s height, and loops his arms around his legs. It makes him look younger and reminds Dean of when they were little, during those moments when they’d escape it all, no John or Bobby or anybody else, just Sam and Dean.

There was this muddy little creek a little ways out from Singer Salvage Yard where they’d sometimes walk after school, shooting the shit and catching bugs with their bare hands. Dean always let his bugs go, but Sam liked to keep them in little habitats that he built inside empty jam jars. He’d sit the way he’s sitting now when he watched his bugs.

Dean doesn’t like feeling like an insect in a jam jar.

“Shit was fucked up, what can I say?” Dean says. Because honestly, what is there to say to your little brother who’s seen your beaten-up ass on a screen in a courtroom?

“You know I –” Sam pauses and sighs, “I got into some shit after you left. I mean, I’ve said that to you before. But I mean, I – I had to go to court, too, for this thing. Anyway, it sucked and it still sucks sometimes.”

“You?” Dean snorts, “What the hell did you do?”

“There was this chick,” Sam says, “In my junior year of high school? Like right after you left. Ruby. We kind of partied a lot together. I shouldn’t have done it. We got into some crap, bad crap, and I don’t feel like elaborating but you probably deserve to know after all this bullshit.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that information. And something on Sam’s face tells him that Sam doesn’t really want him to do anything with that information. Instead of replying in turn, he just asks, “You remember how we used to dick around in that creek near Bobby’s?”

Sam laughs softly, “Yeah, and Bobby got pissed at us for tracking mud all over his kitchen.”

“We used to catch bugs back there,” Dean says for Cas’ benefit, “Tried to catch other stuff, like the mice and rabbits but no such luck.”

“We went shooting there sometimes too,” Sam reminds him, “Paintballs, so we could shoot at each other.”

“Sam always lost,” Dean says.

“I did not,” Sam protests, “Remember that time I shot you like, right on the ass? Oh man, I laughed for days.”

“That was my good pair a’ jeans, Sammy,” Dean complains, “Orange paint, right on the goddamn seat of my pants.”

Castiel and Sam both laugh at this, and Cas’ hand pauses it’s track in Dean’s hair, lowering to his upper arm while he leans in to kiss Dean’s cheek.

“I didn’t play outside much as a child,” Castiel says, “But when Gabriel still lived at home, we did have a lot of fun. Michael and Lucifer were always so serious and Anna was so shy…once Gabriel plastic-wrapped the downstairs toilet and Michael didn’t notice –” he chuckles, “Gabriel was grounded for a month. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”

“He fuckin’ would,” Dean says, smiling despite himself.

“Sometimes I think he made trouble for my benefit,” Castiel admits, “I was very serious about being obedient and pleasing our father, and Gabriel couldn’t give half a flying fuck. I think he wanted me to know that was okay. I did get annoyed with him for bringing so many people home. He is very loud when he has sex.”

“Yeah, thank Christ he takes that crap to Kali’s,” Dean agrees.

“I don’t think she’d have sex in that bedroom of his in any case,” Cas replies.

“Dude, right?” Dean says, “Smells like it belongs to some douchey, New Age, serial masturbator.”

“It does,” Cas responds.

Dean laughs and Sam does too, and then Cas.

It’s then that Dean decides not to dwell on the things that may have never happened, not to dwell on the image of his own twisted up body in a vacant lot, and instead lets himself enjoy this one moment. Alastair could have killed him, but he didn’t. He didn’t do it because Dean realized in time that he was worth more than doing shit just ‘cause he needed to take care of other people.

This here, with Sammy and Cas – that’s taking care of himself.


	21. Our Heads Held High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things to note for this chapter -- this a transition chapter, and it marks the beginning of the end for this story. It's a little shorter than usual but I feel that important ground is covered. Writing it did however give me more trouble than usual, so if you have thoughts on improvements that could be made, I am seriously all ears. Definitely let me know what you thought of this one. It leads into the end (though I am still not 100% on how many more chapters we will have), and just fyi, the pain is not over.
> 
> My next plans for fic are a nice, long oneshot and a high school AU, fyi.

**Chapter Track: Roll On – The Living End**

**_Our Heads Held High_ **

When the packet comes in the mail, Dean is alone at the apartment. His shift at Trickster doesn’t start for a couple more hours and Cas left a note that he was walking to Cloud Nine where he wanted to spend a little while on his own. Dean opens the envelope with unsteady hands and pulls out the papers inside.

Accepted.

“Son of a bitch,” he says, because he didn’t think it was going to happen. In his head it was all still a pipe dream, something far away and unattainable. But here it all is, telling him _Welcome to KU!_  and _We’re so happy to have a new member of the Jayhawks family!_

He drops the papers on the kitchen counter and fumbles with his phone. He ends up calling Bobby first, ‘cause Bobby’s the closest thing he’s ever had to a dad and dads are proud when their kids make it someplace in life, right?

The phone rings four times, and for a painstaking moment, Dean thinks that Bobby isn’t going to pick up. Mercifully, the phone clicks and a gruff voice on the other end greets, “I’m under a fuckin’ Ford right now, Dean. Better be good.”

“I, uh,” Dean says.

“Dean?” Bobby says, tone changing. Dean hears a scraping noise and what must be Bobby’s exhale as he pulls himself out from under the Ford and climbs back onto his feet, “Everything all good over there? Nothin’ happened with your boy, did it?”

“No, nothing like that,” Dean says, and wonders where the fuck his voice went before he adds, “I got accepted into KU, Bobby. Into the fire and rescue program.”

Bobby swears a streak of colorful curses and says, “That’s great, boy. I’m fuckin’ proud of you, I hope you know that.”

Dean pauses and nods before he realizes that Bobby can’t see him, so he clears his throat and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I know that.”

“Good. Now you call your brother and you tell him, you hear me? I gotta go, this lady’s giving me the stink eye. But, Dean…I am proud. So fuckin’ proud.”

A soft swell of pride fills Dean’s gut and he smiles against the phone, “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Sure thing, kid. You’ll do us all proud. I know you will.”

Dean’s never really had somebody say something like that to him. He feeds on it, fucking beside himself with how happy those words make him. He doesn’t say thank you, just tells Bobby goodbye and to behave himself and tell Ellen and Jo that he said hi. Bobby says he will and tells Dean to do the same, and adds a muttered, “That Castiel better be treatin’ my boy right.”

“He is,” Dean says, and even he can hear the smirk in his voice.

When Dean hangs up the phone, he immediately dials Sammy’s number and spills the beans. Sam whispers at first that he has to leave the library, and once he has yells at Dean about how great that is, how proud he is, and also “fuck Jayhawks,” which ends with snappish conversation about how Stanford can go suck it.

He’s grinning like an idiot by the time that Cas arrives home with a cloth bag full of paperback books. When Dean relays the news, Castiel kisses the grin right off of Dean’s face and kisses so far down Dean’s body that breathy celebrations turn into helpless moans.

**X**

Castiel’s acceptance packet arrives in the mail an entire two days later.

**X**

They attend orientation together and suffer through the speech about late registration. Dean feels weird around so many other people, students. And that’s what he is now too. He’s a student.

It’s a strange feeling, being back on the grounds of the school when he hasn’t in so many years. High school didn’t work out with the miasma of complications in his life. In between taking care of Sammy, working part time at Bobby’s garage, and trying to cobble together some semblance of a social life, schoolwork fell out of his priorities. Besides, no one seemed to care there – it was a factory, a home for farm animals. You show up at school, you do what they tell you, you leave, you come back. Dean never really flew that way.

So this is weird. He wonders if the other people on the campus can smell it on him, the high school drop-out, wonders if they think he doesn’t belong here. But nobody really looks his way except for a couple of chicks walking together that give him an appraising look. Castiel notices and chuckles under his breath from his place in step beside Dean.

“You are quite the attention-getter, aren’t you?” he smiles.

Dean used to bask in it, knowing people found him attractive. It’s still kind of nice now, as long as he isn’t subject to leers or unwelcome touches. He hasn’t gotten many of those since he stopped turning tricks, though, since he stopped dressing just provocatively enough to garner the attention of lonely johns with extra money in their wallets.

Which is kind of stupid, he thinks. He could be walking around wearing nothing but a leopard-print banana hammock and a pair of combat boots and people should still show some goddamn respect.

“I guess so,” Dean says in response to Cas, “I’m a kind of a flirt.”

“Mm,” Cas says, a noise of agreement, “You kind of are. And you are my favorite flirt.”

“There are others?” Dean lifts a brow.

“Gabriel, for one,” Cas answers, “But I’d be perturbed if he attempted to flirt with me.”

Dean laughs.

They have to go through a tangle of things if they want to be able to register for classes, he finds out. They need to submit vaccination records – Dean doesn’t even remember being vaccinated, ever – need to take placement tests (not Cas, because he took both the ACT and SAT), the whole nine yards. He’s pissed and anxious about it, especially the tests, because he’s not that smart even if his GED scores landed high enough to get him an acceptance.

Castiel reassures him that these are things that can be taken care of, that he needn’t worry.

Dean worries, anyway.

They go to Pamela’s clinic to get his vaccines, a suggested list that is way too long for Dean’s liking. He can take a beating, get his ass whooped with a belt, sew himself up with needle and thread, but something about getting injected with shit makes him antsy.

“Quit being a baby,” Pam tells him when she opens the package that holds the first vaccine. Tetanus, she says. He probably should’ve gotten that one ages ago, but Pamela says she couldn’t dig up any medical records on Dean aside from the few she had from his previous clinic visits.

“Are doctors allowed to say that?” Dean asks.

The corner of Pam’s lipstick-coated lips quirks up, and she says, “Probably not. But I’m gonna say it anyway. You’re a grown man, Dean-baby. Castiel, will you hold his hand so he’ll shut up?”

“Hey, wait a second,” Dean complains, but Cas’ fingers are warm over his, and there’s already a needle in his arm in the same second.

“ _Ow_! What the fuck, Pam?” he snaps.

“One down, five to go,” she says.

“What? Are you fucking with me?” he whines.

“Afraid not, sugar,” she says, and gives him a little wink, “You can always talk to me about that nice ride of yours to keep your mind off things.”

So Dean does. He talks about his baby, talks about how much he can’t wait until he has the money to whip her back into shape. He wants to replace the cracked windshield and should really get new tires before fall. The paint job is less of a priority, but he wants to see it done anyway, wants to see his girl sleek and shiny again.

His arm is sore by the time that Pamela is finished, but she covers the needle marking with a Batman band-aid and Dean feels at least a little less pissed, because Batman.

And Cas buys him a slice of pie at one of the local dives, so maybe it’s worth it. They end up sharing it, laughing through bites of warm pecan and sugar. It’s strikingly domestic, the kind of thing that Dean could never work up the gumption to do with Lisa because he was afraid that she’d ask if he planned on sticking around, and he didn’t know if he could stick around.

This time, he wants to stick around.

Is this what his father felt when his mom was alive? Dean’s memories of his dad before the fire are few and hazy, a younger John that smiled more than Dean had ever seen in his lifetime. And after his mom’s death, John was a rolling stone, a husk. He didn’t like to stay in one place; he was restless. For a few months that had worked okay with Sam and Dean still weighing him down, but eventually he’d dropped them at Bobby’s and vanished. Sometimes he came home and stayed for a couple months put together, but eventually John would be out the door.

Dean felt that same itch back in Sioux Falls, all throughout his youth. He wanted to leave, wanted to taste the air of the road whipping by him as he blasted down some anonymous highway in the middle of nowhere in a foreign state. Lisa once called him her boyfriend and Dean didn’t talk to her for a week, it freaked him out so bad.

Even as a kid he always pictured his adult life looking something like his dad’s: never staying in one place for too long, meeting people and dropping them when they didn’t suit his needs, living out of his car with the wind at his back.

And son of a bitch if he doesn’t picture something just the fucking opposite now. It makes him feel a little crazy, thinking of working a rough day at the fire station, coming home to Cas’ poor attempts at cooking, maybe getting a little something-something in the sack before bed, or maybe even not – maybe just watching the original Batman, drinking some beers and shooting the shit about their respective days.

He’s probably insane, but as with most things, he’ll roll with it until it doesn’t work anymore.

Something in his gut tells him that this will just _work._

Cas looks curious as they exit the diner and walk toward the Impala but he doesn’t say anything, even when they both catch Dean giving him a stupid smile from the driver’s seat when they slide inside.

**X**

That night when Gabriel comes home, they reheat leftovers from a couple nights before and eat out of plastic Tupperware containers in front of the television, beers open on the coffee table with Adventure Time playing on the television – Gabriel’s choice, tonight.

Castiel relays the day for his brother and talks about what classes he intends to begin with. He’s opted to forgo a full schedule for the first semester out of caution, and he has some irritating required classes that he has to force his way through, but there are a couple specific to his major that he thinks will be enlightening, if nothing else.

Dean still wears his Batman band-aid in the crook of his arm and a wave of affection fills Castiel at the sight of it, at the sight of it all. Dean’s a sloppy eater, cheeks full of food as he chews – and he dribbles some of it on his t-shirt when an unexpected laugh bubbles up at a joke on Gabriel’s program.

“Dude, manners,” Gabriel admonishes from his chair, and Dean does not react beyond lifting the middle finger on his left hand.

When Dean swallows his food, Castiel surrenders to the urge to kiss him, just a soft touch of lips before he pulls away. He presses his nose against Dean’s neck, inhaling the smell of masculine body wash and skin, and says against him, “I love you,” because he thinks that Dean needs to hear those words much more than he does.

Dean looks down at where Castiel rests his head against his shoulder and winks, “I know.”

**X**

Castiel’s August birthday passes in a haze of delirious happiness. Gabriel bakes him a cake that he frosts and drapes in fondant, bringing it out with a wax thirty two stuck into the top of it. The two-shaped candle appears to be recycled from Dean’s twenty fourth birthday eight months ago. Castiel likes the idea of that, that they’ve been a part of each other long enough to share birthday candles. When the night winds down, Gabriel winks at Castiel and Dean and tells them he’s going to allow them some space for the remainder of the evening, while he “hits up” a high-end bar for date night with Kali.

Dean insists that Castiel may request anything of him for the night. They end up a tangled mess on the bedroom floor in their fervor, Dean with his legs wrapped around Castiel’s waist while Castiel ruts into him, arms wound tightly around his neck to pull him in for long, luxurious kisses that taste like birthday cake and beer.

It’s a far cry from his thirty first birthday, which was spent closed in his still-unfamiliar bedroom until Gabriel insisted upon being allowed inside. He brought Castiel a cupcake with a single candle in it and sat beside him and watched while Castiel ate it. He did not sing Happy Birthday, and left quietly when Castiel returned the plate to him with the crumpled cupcake wrapper in the center of it.

“I liked my thirtieth birthday, though,” Castiel relates to Dean, “I was in Paktika, had only been there for a couple of months. The other troops that were stationed brought me this…horribly ugly cake, but they sang for me, and Samandriel got me drunk. We played strip poker. It was rather enlightening.”

“Sounds like my idea of a good time,” Dean smirks, still naked and underneath Castiel, though his arms are no longer wound around Castiel, instead linked behind his head as he grins upward.

It makes Castiel wonder what his tour would have been like with Dean there. He wonders if he would have fallen so unbelievably in love the way that he has here in Kansas.

He asks Chuck about this during one of his appointments, a break between EMDR sessions, which have been getting steadily easier for Castiel to handle as the months crawl along.

Chuck considers this and says, “Dunno, Castiel. If we’re talking off the books, personal opinion here – I do believe in fate. Destiny. But not everyone does, and I definitely don’t think Dean does. But you gotta admit, you two got a certain charm, don’t you?”

Castiel smiles down at his hands at this and just nods.

When the hour and a half passes, Chuck suggests, “Why don’t you ask Dean and Gabriel to one of the family group sessions? You’re getting a lot better, but it could do a world of good to have them more involved, if you think you’re ready for that.”

“I’ll ask them,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t, yet.

The school semester begins a mere week later. It starts with a quiet anxiety that Castiel hasn’t felt since high school. He’s older than most of his classmates and many of them stare when his leg wears him out and he starts to limp more heavily. He remains quiet for most of his class periods unless directly spoken to.

He still doesn’t ask Dean and Gabriel if they’d be willing to attend the group sessions held at the Topeka VA for families and friends of veterans with PTSD. He doesn’t know how to ask them.

The bulk of Dean’s classes don’t take place on the KU campus, but rather are scheduled in other cities for specific times. To take all the courses necessary he says he thinks that it could take up to a year, but that doesn’t sound so bad to Castiel. He has a far longer road in front of him.

His first year composition class is embarrassingly basic, but it’s required, and many of Castiel’s fellow students need the push in the right direction. He doesn’t say much, opting to sit in the far corner of the classroom, silently turning in assignments without speaking.

His professor doesn’t say much to him, either, often occupied by a loud redhead whose first name Castiel doesn’t know because she insists upon going by Abaddon.

It isn’t until the professor levels his eyes at Castiel mid-class and asks, “Do you speak more than two words put together, Novak?”

“Yes, sir,” he decides upon saying. Perhaps he ought to have said more, because this response elicits a cock of the brow back at Castiel.

The professor folds his arms and studies Castiel for a long moment, long enough that the other students turn back and join the stare.

“What do you think you’re going to write your evaluative essay on?” he asks, and then adds for the benefit of the class, “Castiel produces some of the best material I’ve seen in years. I’m sure he could give some of you direction.”

“Perhaps…science fiction novels?” Castiel says. He hadn’t thought about any of that yet. Mainly, he’d been focused on his math materials, because he hasn’t worried about the subject in years and his skills are rusty to say the least.

“That’s good, but what else?” his professor asks.

“I – er. Prosthetic limbs?” he says without thinking.

“That’s interesting material,” he nods, “What qualities could you evaluate?”

“Comfort,” Castiel lists first, “compatibility, structure, joint function.”

And though he hasn’t the faintest clue what possesses him, he climbs to his feet and pulls up the leg of his jeans and goes on, “This one is technically my third. During physical therapy and afterward you have temporary prosthetics that you’re given, which are far less comfortable. And although I haven’t had the opportunity to try one, there are running prosthetics, among others.”

When he takes his seat again, his face burns but he doesn’t feel shame. Shame used to be what overtook him when anyone noticed his off-kilter gait, saw a flash of metal by mistake, or worst of all, saw the scarred stump of his right leg. But he’s…he’s actually a little proud. His scars may separate him from much of the class and make him distinct, but that doesn't bother him the way it did once.

That era of his life seems far away as he considers his feelings now. He’s proud of his scars, because they are the written history of his body, physical evidence that he’s seen more in thirty two years than some will see in an entire lifetime.

Yes, that’s what he is. Proud.

“That’s perfect,” the professor nods, “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d like to see you all write about, the things you know that nobody else in this room could tell me about.”

Even though he isn’t supposed to, Castiel pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans and composes a short text message to Dean, _Showed my leg to class and didn’t feel badly at all._

The response is almost instant, _proud of u angel._


	22. I Think I'm Gonna Make It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness, I have a lot of mental health issues and work things that I'm trying to work through. Due to this I am also not 100% on how long the last few chapters will take to get out. You may have noticed that I switched the amount of chapters to out of 25. This is an approximation -- it could be a little more or less, but the fic will end at around that long.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support, and happy reading!

**Chapter Track: Bangs – Brick+Mortar**

**_I Think I’m Gonna Make It_ **

They’re in bed when Cas gets that look on his face, the one that means he’s contemplating saying something serious. He was reading, but the book slumps a little in his hand while he stares across the room at the wall, oblivious to Dean eyeing him from where he’s curled up on the pillow beside him.

“Cas?” he finally ventures.

Castiel blinks and looks down, marking his book and setting it aside, “Yes?”

“Nothing, dude,” Dean replies, “You just look like you have something on your mind.”

A soft _hmph_ escapes Cas as he slides down under the covers, stretching his arms behind his head. He’s mulling it over.

So Dean nudges him with his shoulders and says, “No pressure, baby.”

Cas makes a noise of complaint, as though Dean’s statement means the precise opposite of what he meant it to, and rolls onto his side, mussing his hair up further with an agitated hand. He says, “Chuck told me that I should ask you and Gabriel to attend some sessions at the VA. Support meetings…or something. I don’t know. It sounds like they intend to instruct you on how to babysit me.”

A frown knits Cas’ brow as he says this. He’s been considering it for some time, then.

“I dunno,” Dean says, “Maybe it’s just like – I mean, not so we understand, but so we get it better? You know, like we don’t fuck up if something goes wrong.”

Cas trains his eyes on where their feet touch under the blanket, “I suppose.”

“You know we’d do it,” Dean says, “Well, I mean, I would. Bet Gabe would too, but I don’t think he’d wanna hear it from me.”

“Yeah,” Cas slowly agrees.

“Wanna sleep on it?” Dean suggests.

Castiel shifts again and nods, reaching to shut off the lights. He murmurs through the dark, “I am still on the fence about it.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says, “to me, anyway.”

It’s the same kind of understanding that Castiel has afforded him. Dean may be hot-headed and argumentative, but he can comprehend a need to _not talk_. He still doesn’t talk about the court proceedings back in the summer, he imagines for the same reasons Cas doesn’t want to rope Dean and Gabriel into a group sesh at the VA. Embarrassment – humiliation, even. The pieces of themselves that are very distinctly not normal.

“You ever wonder what normal folks get up to?” Dean asks.

Normal folks, the kind that don’t have to worry about nightmares dragging them down to the heat of Paktika, or to the hard chill of a red pickup underneath a bridge in the middle of nowhere in Sioux Falls.

“Don’t worry as much, I imagine,” Castiel answers, “But to answer your question, yes. I often wonder.”

No weekly appointments with a psychologist, Dean thinks, so what do they do instead? Do they kick back and watch TV? Do they go to work and throw a fit about the wrong kind of milk in their Starbucks latte? Must be nice.

“I wish –” Cas begins, and cuts himself off, a small frown set deep in his face still clear to Dean even with the lights shut off.

“Wish what?” Dean asks.

“I wish that people didn’t…” he exhales through his nostrils and turns blue eyes toward the ceiling, “didn’t say things like ‘get over it,’ or what is it – that awful phrase politicians like to use –”

“Pull yourself up by your bootstraps?” Dean suggests.

“Yes,” Cas confirms, “That. I wonder if they know how much those words…” he trails off again, the sentence caught in his throat like a fly trapped in honey.

“Fuckin’ kill?” Dean finishes.

They’re finishing each other’s sentences.

“Yes. Fucking kill,” Cas agrees again, “I never feel anger the same as when I’m told to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I don’t even have bootstaps – _I can’t fit my prosthetic into boots._ ” He punctuates this with a frustrated growl.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Normal folks, they want you to be like them. And you wish you could be like them. You wish you didn’t have nightmares, or flashbacks, or a scar on your ass from being spanked by a sadist wearing a diamond ring, or a leg blown off by a suicide bomber overseas. But you do have those things. You have scars and bad dreams, demons that grip you and don’t let you go. They just keep dragging you down, down, down, and some days it’s damn impossible to pull yourself as far away as you can.

Normalcy.

Normalcy is being able to pull yourself up by the bootstraps.

And Castiel can’t. Castiel can’t, because his prosthetic doesn’t fit inside boots.

**X**

Bargaining for where to spend Thanksgiving is about as easy as negotiating the Treaty of Versailles. Dean has never had to do this before. Hell, he never knew that he would have to do this, bark out every reason why Cas should drive with him to South Dakota and spend the holiday at Bobby’s with him.

Castiel meanwhile insists that it is tradition for he and Gabriel to fly to visit Anna and spend the holiday with her.

Gabriel snorts, “Yeah, a tradition that started last year,” which naturally launches Dean into another spiel about why his idea for Thanksgiving is way fucking better.

In the end, the terms are this: Castiel will fly with Gabriel to spend Thanksgiving with Anna while Dean makes the six hour hike to Sioux Falls in the Impala, and they will spend Thanksgiving apart. After a lengthy speaker phone conversation with Anna (“Is that Uncle Pirate? Uncle Pirate, are you bringing Uncle Dean? Is he bringing us more colors?”), they all settle upon an enormous Christmas. Anna and Gabriel will join Dean and Castiel at Bobby’s place.

Bobby pretends to be bemused by the idea that there will be two rowdy little girls in his house in December, but Dean thinks he’s secretly pleased.

Thanksgiving is good.

Dean can think of no other way to say it.

He recalls last year’s Thanksgiving and is glad to see it go unrepeated. He had known Cas and Gabe weren’t going to be around because they told him so, and so he went for the typical Dean Winchester holiday special: Chinese takeout, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a long-ass nap in the backseat of his baby.  

This year is fuckin’ buttloads better. Sam and Jess aren’t there – they’re with Jess’ family back in California, but like Dean and Castiel have negotiated their way into a Bobby Singer Christmas. But Jo and Ellen and Bobby are just the company that Dean needs. He helps with the cooking and talks about the classes that he’s taken so far, and complains about how much his growing collection of equipment is costing him.

According to Ellen, traffic at the Roadhouse is better than ever, though Sioux Falls still feels emptier without Sam and Dean to fill it with their arguing.

They eat like royalty on Thanksgiving, in the early evening. Dean hasn’t hard turkey and stuffing in _years_ , and he swears later that night when he calls Cas that the meal was like sex in his mouth.

“Sex in your mouth tastes a lot different than turkey with stuffing, Dean,” Castiel says seriously.

They may or may not have graphic phone sex before they both decide to go bed.

Cas’ helpless, breathy moans on the other line do incredible things to Dean, especially as he can hear him choke back him louder noises and muffle them into his pillow.

“How do you look, angel?” Dean hums, dick in hand, “Bet you look nice. Probably in those ugly fuckin’ sweats you won’t throw out. Bet they’re tangled around your knees and you’re fucking your hand. How’s that feel?”

“Wish it was you,” Cas gasps, breath catching, probably as he’s doing something unfairly fuckin’ sexy to himself, “Your mouth. Wish it was your mouth.”

“Me too,” Dean sighs into his cell, and adds, “I’d suck you down like Hoover. Miss you, miss your dick…I’d be so hot and wet.”

“Dean, Jesus,” Cas whispers, and those are his last words before he comes. A tiny, muffled noise sounds on the other end and a clatter as Cas’ phone falls onto the floor. Dean is close, and the sound that Cas makes is what pushes him over the edge. Such a quiet sound but so filthy. God, he wishes Cas could have made that in person. He doesn’t know when he turned into such a freaking sap.

Dean listens to Cas collect the phone, and his voice sounding wrecked as he says softly, “Dean?” in a tone that suggests he’s afraid that Dean isn’t on the other end anymore.

“Here, angel,” he says.

“I should probably go,” Castiel replies, “Goodnight.”

“Mm,” Dean agrees, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Anna’s guest room does not have bed bugs, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Cas responds, and then adds, “I love you.”

“I know,” Dean says, like he always does. And as always afterward, a twinge of guilt prods at him when the words _I love you_ stick on his tongue and all he can do Han Solo Cas back.

**X**

Christmas is so much better.

The road trip up to Sioux Falls with Gabriel and Cas is nothing short of a battle, driving through patches of snowstorm and sun while Gabe kicks his feet up in the back (“Gabriel, get your filthy fuckin’ feet off of my baby’s seats.”) and complains most of the way there, chattering over the roll of Dean’s music through the vehicle. Eventually he falls asleep, tucked up against the window with his sweatshirt bundled up under his head, mouth open and snoring loudly.

Castiel drifts in and out in the passenger’s seat beside Dean, his prosthetic off and stored on the floor underneath his feet. He brought the coloring book that he bought last time they drove up to South Dakota together. Between bouts of sleep, he concentrates intensely on it, sure to color inside the lines with his crayons tilted just right so that they won’t go blunt quite as fast.

In the end, the spotty weather on the road delays them just over an hour and a half. By the time that they pull up to Bobby’s, it’s clear that Anna has already arrived and been left to introductions without Dean to intervene – Leah and Daisy are bundled up in winter finery, scarves tied around their throats and Jo-made hats pulled down around their ears as they play out front in the snow that litters Bobby’s front yard.

Jo opens the door when they park around the back and slog through snow to gather their crap from the back, slinging duffels over their shoulders and pretending that their hair isn’t as car-mussed and their bodies aren’t road weary as they are. She has some hot cider in her hands, which Dean makes a grab for when he steps up the back stairs.

Jo yanks it back and says, “Get your own, Winchester,” and sets the mug aside to gather him up in a bone-crushing hug.

After they finish hugs and introductions, they all settle into their respective places. Dean and Cas have a little less privacy than they would have liked. Anna and her girls have been designated to Dean’s childhood bedroom (Dean ran to make sure that the old Playboy cutouts had been stripped from the walls, which they had been, thank God) so Dean and Cas get the lumpy pull-out bed in the living room, Gabriel across the way on a fold out cot.

The days pass more quickly than Dean would have liked, with little to no downtime while Daisy and Leah are up and about. Bobby would never admit to it, but Castiel’s nieces have him wrapped around their little fingers. Dean caught him participating in what looked distinctly like a makeshift game of tea party, in which Dean’s old toy cars were guests alongside Sam’s childhood stuffed animal collection. When Bobby saw Dean over the rim of his teacup, he gave him a _look_ , one that said, _this will never be spoken of or so help me God you will wake up dead_ , and Dean lifted his hands in surrender, turning to pretend he’d never seen Bobby Singer playing Mrs. Nesbit with a couple of kids.

The integration of Dean’s family in Sioux Falls with the family that he found in Lawrence does sweet things to him, though he won’t say it out loud, not even to Cas or Sam.

In the end, it takes Dean until late on Christmas Eve to notice that Jess and Sam are acting all weird. As soon as he catches on to that, it takes a handful of minutes of scanning them both to see a huge fucking rock sparkling on Jessica’s left hand. As soon as he lifts his eyes up from it he sees Sam smirking at him.

“No fuckin’ way,” Dean says.

“Yes fucking way,” Sam replies.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Yup,” Sam says back.

A stretch of silence rolls out between them before Dean whistles lowly, “Well, I’d best fucking be your best man, or I’m filing a complaint somewhere.”

Sam laughs and says, “Who else would I choose, dumbass?”

And when Christmas Day at last rolls around, it’s loud and boisterous and full of energy, just like any good Winchester-Singer-Harvelle-Novak-Milton Christmas should be. The presents from Dean and Cas (which is weird to think of, that they’re giving gifts as a unit) aren’t wrapped in newspaper like Dean’s gifts last year were. Cas insisted upon wrapping them himself, in gold and silver paper, and ribbon that he did that curling-with-the-scissors trick on, the trick that Dean could not for the life of him figure out no matter how many times Castiel showed him it was done.

Dean files the entire trip away in that place in his brain where he keeps his happiest memories, right up there with the blurry memory of his mom singing Hey Jude and he and Sam catching bugs at the creek.

**X**

They argue about the family support group at the VA.

Cas still won’t ask them to come.

**X**

It takes until one ugly EMDR session for Castiel to ask it.

Dean drives him to the VA one morning in early April and as always kicks back in the waiting room. He brought a book just in case, but ends up watching Kevin play Tetris on his computer, because _holy shit_ , the kid is good. He whoops behind Kevin like he’s watching a football game when he’s really just watching the kid’s fingers fly over the keyboard, faster than Dean can even think.

The spell breaks when Chuck brings Cas out to the waiting area – Chuck hasn’t escorted him out in ages. The psychologist catches Dean’s eye and gestures for him to come over, while Cas flops down onto one of the ugly chairs against the wall, face ashen and expression haunted.

“He had a really nasty flashback,” Chuck explains under his breath, “I’m gonna need you and Gabe to be careful for a little, okay? I know I’ve encouraged talking to him about his experience before, but he needs a break. Keep him occupied tonight.”

“I will,” Dean says.

When Chuck ducks back toward the offices, Cas launches off of the chair like it’s offended him and presses himself into Dean. They stand there in the middle of the waiting room just like that for a long time, Cas’ nose against Dean’s neck, Dean’s arms tucked firm against Cas.

Castiel does not speak during the elevator ride down to the first floor or the walk across the parking lot to where Dean parked the Impala.

But as soon as the doors of the vehicle close, he looks over at Dean and says, “There was nothing I could do.”

Dean doesn’t talk, but he does turn on his baby. He looks over at Cas expectantly.

“Samandriel, I mean,” Cas says, “He was pinned by shrapnel. It was like a horror movie, all stuck out of his check and bloody and he was still _alive_ , Dean. He knew he was going to die and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Dean lays a hand on Cas’ shoulder and squeezes. He says, “Wasn’t your fault.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything to this, but he affords Dean a jerky nod before they pull out of the parking lot and head for the highway back home.

That night, after a Star Trek marathon and Dean feeling so squicked out by withdrawn, crumpled Cas that he makes tea and forces it upon him, Castiel clears his throat and speaks the magic words, “I think…I mean, I would like it if you both came to some meetings at the VA. I’ve discussed it briefly with Dean. They’re support meetings for families of veterans and I…think it would be wise.”

Dean nods, and Gabriel says, “Whatever you need, kiddo.”

“Do not call me kiddo,” is all that Castiel has to say to this.

**X**

Three days after Dean and Gabriel’s first support meeting at the VA, Dean submits his application to the Lawrence Fire Deparment.

**X**

And that’s how he ends up here, in a paper-covered office with fire chief Victor Henriksen staring at him from over Dean’s application. It’s a small office, nothing like the grandeur Dean imagined somebody with Victor’s job should have. It looks like the domain of a busy, practical man. He can get behind that.

“I’m sure you know that we do background checks,” Victor says.

Dean grabs at the back of his neck and nods, “Yeah,” and resists adding ‘but you already know a lot of the bullshit, don’t you?’

Victor exhales and lays Dean’s application down on his desk. He says, “You passed with flying colors, Winchester – the physical and written portions of the required tests. But as you know, someone of your background is not the kind of person that we’d like to hire, test scores aside. So I want you to tell me, and I want you to tell me now, why I should make you one of the team.”

He knew that this is what would happen. Or maybe he was just afraid that this was coming. That no matter that he’s built now, no matter how strong his shoulders are or how fast he can move on limited oxygen, no matter how high he scored on his tests after tireless nights of studying with Cas or IMing Sam asking for help on math crap, he still can’t make it.

“I’m giving you a chance, kid,” Victor says, “I want to know why I should hire you.”

A chance.

“I know I have a fucked up history,” Dean says, and pauses, waiting for Victor to add ‘I’ll say,’ or bring up some bullshit that Dean did just barely post-eighteenth birthday. But he doesn’t, so Dean goes on, “Look, I could give you some crap about my dead mom and my deadbeat dad but I’m not gonna. I had some family on my side, and I fucked up, because I was dumb. Hell, I’m still dumb. Point is, a lot of the trouble was me wanting to take care of Sammy, I mean, Sam. He was the guy next to me in the courtroom. The huge one. Anyway, I went about it the wrong way.”

Victor nods, a silent ‘go on’ cue.

“Thing is, there’s not much a thirteen-year-old kid can do to hustle up enough money to pay for shoes, or trapper keepers, or lunch money, or Christmas presents. So I did what I could I what I had to, and somewhere along the way I didn’t know anything else,” Dean says, “I guess those are all excuses. To be honest, I don’t regret a goddamn thing. I’ve faced a hell of a lot and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’m not gonna tell you I’ll work harder than the guy that lived a Norman Rockwell life on Easy Street, but I am gonna tell you that if you got a hundred a’ those guys, you’re gonna want at least one of me.”

“Dean,” Victor says, the word quiet and final.

Dean expects the rejection, knows that it’s coming.

“I need to know that you’re not in the game anymore,” Victor says, “History needs to stay that way – history.”

Dean gnaws on his lip and tries to figure out how to answer this one. He’s got a million lies on the tip of his tongue, but none of them end up bubbling to the surface.

“I’m not gonna promise that,” Dean finally settles on saying, “I can promise you there’s nothing I’m into now. But if I had to, if Sam or Cas needed me and the only thing I could do didn’t fit the letter of the law, then I’d still do it.”

“I admire your honesty,” Victor says, and there’s an unspoken _but this means we can’t take you on._

“I understand,” he says, and tries not to let the rejection leak in. He’ll let it hit him later, when he’s locked safely in Gabriel’s apartment with some scotch, Star Wars, and Cas’ mouth.

“Understand what?” Victor asks, “I haven’t even told you my decision yet.”

“What?” Dean says.

“You’re in,” Victor replies, “I may not agree with you choices, son, but I think we need somebody like you. You’re right – we need somebody that’s seen things the other men haven’t. We need you.”

“You –”

“I like you, Dean,” Victor says, “and I want you to know that it says something about your character that you never gave in.”

“I –” Dean starts. He had given in, though. He’d given in a million times at a million points in his life.

“We all trip and fall,” Victor says, “But what matters is getting back up again.” It’s corny, and it shouldn’t mean so goddamn much to hear those words, but it does. It means too much.

“Are you serious?” Dean says, unable to contain himself. He can hear the excitement in his voice, hear his emotions leaking out from the inside, and he doesn’t even care.

“Serious as a heart attack,” Victor says, “Welcome to the Lawrence fire department, kid.”


	23. Inside the Sudden Loss of Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for a slow update, here is a fast one.
> 
> Warning for fire.

**Chapter Track: Ambulances – Ladytron**

**_Inside the Sudden Loss of Air_ **

Dean’s at the station when he gets the call, feet kicked up while he dominates in a game of poker with the other guys. Victor doesn’t like them playing poker with real cash due to some sanctimonious bullshit about legality or something or other, so they barter with slips of paper that represent sandwiches from the sub joint down the street. The guys owe Dean somewhere in the realm of twenty-something sub sandwiches, and he’s only been playing poker with them for a couple of weeks.

“Hang on,” he says, when he sees Cas’ name light up his screen above a photo of him in Trickster, glaring at Dean over an Asimov novel (and brandishing his middle finger, a gesture well-deserved as Dean had remarked when he pulled out the book, “Well fuck me in the Asimov,” which Castiel did not find nearly as funny as he did). He steps away from the card game and treks across the room, ducking toward the bathrooms so that the guys don’t eavesdrop.

“Hey Cas,” he greets when he picks up, and glances at the cheap plastic clock at the end of the hall, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

The low rumble of Cas’ voice replies, “I had an incident.”

Dean frowns at that and questions, “Incident?”

“Yes,” Cas says. His voice is quieter than usual, the way it gets when Cas feels like he’s done something to be ashamed of. Dean hears his soft exhale and a quick exchange of voices before Cas adds, “I need you to come collect me, please.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Where are you?”

“Um,” Cas says, “In a counselor’s office.”

Dean licks his lips and nods, even though Cas can’t see him, “I’ll be there, angel. Sit tight.”

“All right,” Cas murmurs, and the line goes dead.

Dean jogs to Victor’s office to cry family emergency and tells the guys that they’ll have to finish the poker game without him, but that they sure as hell owe him lunch tomorrow when he’s back on the job. He tries not to speed when he jumps into the Impala but can’t help himself. Cas never has _incidents_ at school – that’s where Castiel is most responsible, always on his best behavior, always with a book in his hands, always having his assignments in on time.

He parks the Impala and pays for his space hurriedly – fucking school parking lots – before he finds Cas. He’s in the counseling building, legs tucked tight against one of the chairs and face in his hands.

“Cas,” Dean says, too softly to get his attention, and then, “C’mon, angel.”

Castiel looks up. He looks about as pale as he is after an ugly EMDR session. When Dean gets close enough, he can see Cas’ hands shaking.

“I’ll get your bag,” Dean says, and plucks Castiel’s canvas messenger bag from where it lays at his feet, slinging it over his shoulder, “I’m real close, only a couple minutes away.”

Cas walks more slowly than usual, the limp in his stride evident to anybody paying enough attention. Must be the weather – the clouds overhead indicate that they’re about to get rain dumped all over them. Fucking spring.

Dean waits until they’re tucked in his baby and he has her revved up before he asks the million-dollar question: “What the hell happened?”

“Can we please not talk about it until we get home?” Cas requests, and he looks pointedly _not_ at Dean. He opts instead to stare out the window, watching as the parking lot fades and campus disappears behind them. He adds, “I think I need a drink.”

Oh.

“That bad, huh?” Dean says.

“Hm,” is the only response that this elicits.

They ride the rest of the way home in eerie silence, a quiet so heavy that Dean plays a Zeppelin tape to break up the lack of noise. He keeps the volume on low out of consideration, and finds himself glancing at Cas too many times as they drive from KU back to the apartment building. Inside, they choose the elevator instead of the stairs without discussion, since Dean can see the pain Cas’ leg is giving him. He doesn’t touch Cas beyond a squeeze to the shoulder.

It’s only when Cas is out of his overcoat and prosthetic with his limbs sprawled across the couch with a finger of scotch in a Looney Tunes glass clutched between his hands that he says, “I yelled at another student.”

Dean slips down onto Gabe’s chair and says, “Yeah, what’d the fucker do?”

“It’s…damn it, Dean, she didn’t even do anything. Her opinions were valid. I just hate this book we’re reading. I find it anxiety-inducing,” he huffs, “She’s just a kid, not even twenty, I don’t think, and she went on about how _real soldiers_ wouldn’t do any of the things that happened according to Tim O’Brien, who, by the way, is an actual veteran, not an Midwestern pageant queen that ‘wants to work with children because she loves the little rugrats,’ or whatever the hell she said.”

Dean can only lift a brow as Cas takes two healthy swallows of whiskey and melts back into the couch, sullen and angry all at once.

“She doesn’t know,” Cas says into the glass of liquor, “and I legitimately cannot decide if I’d like her to know, because wouldn’t that be awful? Some tender-hearted little blond literature student from Kansas, knowing the reality of war. But she can say things like _real soldiers wouldn’t do that_ , and she thinks she can mean it. Perhaps I would not act as the characters in this damned book have behaved, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what that violence does. I’d like to think that I was a collected, logical person before I deployed. Now I yell at children over ten years younger than me in lecture halls and call them names.”

“Dude,” is about all that Dean can squeeze out, “Shit’s messed up.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel agrees, “The shit is indeed ‘messed up.’ My entire class thinks I’m a mental case now. I told her she was a naïve harpy and she should be glad she doesn’t understand why the characters have done the things that they have and that perhaps if she had bits of metal in strange places and one leg she’d comprehend. I made her cry. And then the professor escorted me out.”

Dean whistles and knocks back a swallow of liquor before he says, “Fuck.”

“Quite.”

And honestly, even with group sessions at the VA with Gabriel, Dean doesn’t know how to handle this. Not that Cas wants to be ‘handled,’ anyway. He wants to be handled about as much as Dean does, which is to say not at all. The least Dean can do is afford Cas the respect that some poor blond kid didn’t.

So he says, “Let’s hit the gym and blow off some steam.”

Cas nods, and reaches for his prosthetic.

**X**

Castiel puts a tenuous bandage over the shaken relationship with his peers in class when he decides it best to take a moment to apologize. It’s a combination of humiliating and relief-inducing when he explains his actions in clipped phrases, editing out the gory parts for tender collegiate ears. For the second time in his college career he lifts the leg of his jeans to display his prosthetic and explains that he had a tour in Afghanistan. He explains that he attends sessions that help him cope, even though he doesn’t owe that information to these people.

When class ends, the petite blond that he made cry approaches him, says that he didn’t need to say he was sorry, and hugs him.

It is weird.

The hug leaves him unsettled, but at least there’s vague understanding of why he did what he did.

Dean, meanwhile, winks when Cas clambers into the Impala and says, “Gettin’ lucky on me, are we?”

Clearly he witnessed the display between Castiel and the little pageant queen.

“I was not ‘getting lucky,’” Cas grumps, “I did not like being touched by a stranger.”

Dean answers to this by singing _Touched by an Angel_ , though he replaces ‘angel’ with ‘stranger.’ Cas rolls his eyes and lets him have his fun, though he has no Godly idea how Dean even knows that song.

**X**

Summer classes blend into the fall semester, and campus is again crowded. Gabriel complains about the onslaught of new freshmen that have laid siege upon Trickster Coffee, but they all know that the extra money is nothing to turn his nose at. With the extra money comes Kali’s growing presence – she’s whip-smart and well-off on her own, but the woman never said no to a few extra trinkets and indulgences courtesy of Gabriel’s wallet.

It occurs to Dean that Gabriel actually drives him insane.

The man is a good friend and an even better brother. He’s also a child in a middle-aged body, set in his ways harder than even Bobby Singer.

Well, maybe not _that_ hard.

The point remains that the man is a pain in the proverbial ass.

“Look, sister, no one shits on Star Wars,” he snips at Kali one evening.

Her running commentary on Return of the Jedi is giving him a headache. Yeah, the special effects are screwy. It was 1984, what does she expect?

“I appreciate your fanatic love for these films,” she says, sounding so damn reasonable, “but this is no masterpiece. I’ve had this same discussion with Gabriel.”

“Well, Gabe is whipped,” Dean says and narrows his eyes at the dude in question, “You are a kept man, Novak.”

Gabriel cocks a brow and says, “And – you’re not?”

Dean just flips the bird.

All that Castiel has to offer the conversation is a weary, “Do you suppose you could attempt to get along for an evening?”

“No,” Dean says at the same moment that Kali replies, “I highly doubt it.”

It’s a relief when Gabriel takes off with Kali to her place (why they did not do this in the goddamn first place, he cannot attest to). Dean smokes a cigarette to take the edge off of the shitty evening, lingering on the tiny slab of concrete while he watches a group of teenagers sitting on a Honda Accord – with soda bottles that in all likelihood do not contain sodas – shove at each other and laugh. It’s getting a little cold, the way that early fall evenings do. It’s not cold enough for a jacket, but Dean does shiver in nothing but a plaid flannel and a ratty t-shirt.

When he retreats back into the apartment, flicking his cigarette butt over the edge of the deck and sliding the glass door closed behind him, he sees Cas at the kitchen table on his laptop, sipping pensively at a steaming mug of tea.

Cas doesn’t look up when Dean sits across from him with a beer, but he does speak, “We don’t have to live here anymore, you know.”

Dean chokes on his beer and says, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean that we don’t have to live here anymore,” Cas says, “We could move out. With my disability check and my position at the campus library –” Boy, does he love rubbing that in, “– and your job with the fire department, we have an income enough to make rent for a one-bedroom apartment. We could even find one closer to school or the station.”

“But,” Dean says, “This is home.”

“You hate it here,” Castiel replies, matter-of-fact, and raises his gaze just an inch above the edge of his monitor to study Dean.

“No, I don’t,” Dean insists, “I mean, Kali rubs me the wrong way and Gabe’s a douche, but he’s family, so it’s like…okay.”

“So you’d like to remain here, because Gabriel is family,” Cas concludes.

No.

Castiel reads him like a book and says, “I think you don’t want to commit to living with _me._ Alone.”

“That’s not –”

“It is,” Cas interrupts, “You never once have told me that you loved me back. Despite your claims to the contrary, you are neither Han Solo nor Batman, you are Dean Winchester. Frankly, I have no idea how Dean Winchester feels about me, because he’s a coward and refuses to acknowledge his own fucking feelings.”

With that, Castiel closes his laptop, tucks it under his arm, and locks himself in their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. The one they share. Because they’re together. Partners, as they say.

Did Dean just get relegated to sleeping on the damn couch?

“Fine!” he shouts in the direction of the bedroom, but Castiel does not shout back.

His beverage of choice switches from beer to bourbon, and Dean spends the rest of the evening watching Star Wars over again out of spite. He goes to sleep without a pillow and with the spare blanket, uncomfortable and cold without Cas’ space-heater body laid out alongside his.

**X**

When Cas emerges the following morning, Dean already has coffee made. He smacks Cas away from the machine and fixes his drink how he likes it, bringing both their coffees to the kitchen table, where Cas focuses on some textbook instead of Dean’s face, and does not thank him for making or bringing him the coffee.

“Okay,” Dean finally says, gruffly.

“Come again?” Cas tips his head to the side.

“I said, okay,” Dean mutters, “Let’s do it. Move out. Co-sign a lease. The whole shebang.”

**X**

“How’s the move going, Winchester?” Zeke asks between bites of his sandwich, purchased courtesy of Dean, whose poker game has been woefully off for the last week and a half.

Dean’s own sandwich is heaven between two slices of bread, but he manages to chew and swallow before he replies, “I had no idea how much shit we had, that’s how it’s going. You’d think a couple of dudes sharing a room wouldn’t have enough crap to fill a moving van, but son of a bitch, the books alone. I’m telling you, Zeke, Cas better goddamn like this place, because I’m never moving again.”

Ezekiel laughs through his bite of sub and rests his feet against the table as he leans his chair back, “No kidding. I’ve lived in the same place for seven years, never wanna leave. Got my dogs, got my shows and that’s all I need.”

“Cas has been angling for a goddamn dog,” Dean complains, “Not that they’re not nice, it’s just – really? We’ve got enough on our plates, and now you want a fuckin’ beagle?”

“Beagles are great dogs,” Gordon says, and collapses on the chair on Dean’s other side.

“Not the fucking point, Gordon,” Dean replies, “The _point_ is that me n’ Cas are both headcases and we’re only halfway out of Gabe’s place anyway, so a dog is nine kinds of a bad idea. You’ve gotta train those things, man.”

“Maybe it’ll give your dude something to do,” Gordon shrugs.

“He has something to do,” Dean smirks, “Me.”

Zeke groans and Aidan rolls his eyes from across the room. Gordon just snorts.

No one has time for a witty retort, however, as the alarms start beating through the halls, shrill and constant. The sub sandwiches and easy laughter are dropped in instants as they all kick it into gear, running to tug on their equipment and haul ass to their fire truck. Gordon drives the lady, sirens blasting.

It doesn’t occur to Dean to ask where they’re going. Most of the things that they’ve taken care of have been car crashes or small ordeals in the suburbs, stoves left on or electrical wiring gone funky. He’s only seen one guy hurt, and that was this disaster of a crash on I-70, where a man hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt.

But then he hears Aidan shout about what’s going on –

“Apartment fire!” he says over the wind whipping by the truck, “They’ve got some other guys on the scene but it’s out of control.”

And he realizes that they’re headed straight for _home_. Straight for Gabriel’s apartment, where he and Castiel still live.

Dean can’t breathe as they round the corner, and it’s not just because of the haze and billow of smoke, it’s because of where the smoke is coming from. It’s his building. It’s the place where his life was saved, where Cas and Gabe took him in and fed him and let him crash on the couch. It’s the place where he had his first real Christmas in years, where he trusted enough to let Cas fuck him, where he celebrated his birthday with Sam and Jess.

Flames climb high up the sides. How did it get so fucking bad? How did nobody stop it?

The surroundings are chaos, people with ash streaked on their faces and bunny slippers on their feet. A little girl is crying and tugging at her mom to go back as she drops her doll. Gordon picks it up and hands it to her, but the pair of people are gone and swallowed by the crowd before anyone can say so much as a thank you.

Victor barks at them, “The upper floors are toast, boys. We can't go up there – the building's coming down. But we’ve got some pets and a lady in a wheelchair on the first floor that are missing that I think we can get, and I want Aidan and Ezekiel on that. Winchester, you and Walker are out here with the hose. Let’s try and bring this down.”

Dean follows the orders to the letter, jogging back toward their equipment.

Until he sees and sees a panic-stricken Gabriel swaddled in an extra blanket with his feet bare and his hair askew. A police officer holds him back. Dean swallows the knot in his throat. Where the fuck is Cas? He calls at Gordon, "Hang on, I gotta check on something!"

“Winchester,” Gordon manages, but Dean is already running.

“Dean!” Gabriel exclaims.

“Gabe, I’ve gotta get this under control,” Dean snaps back.

“You can’t, Dean,” Gabriel says desperately, and waves his cellphone around with a flail of his arms, “I tried to call you, but you didn't pick up. What's the big deal? Cassie’s still in there! He doesn’t have his leg on – he’s still upstairs – you’ve gotta – gotta go get him. You have to, they won’t let me –”

Shit, right, he left his goddamn cell in his rush to get to work so he wasn't late.

And at the mention of Cas, Dean bolts. _Structurally unsound_ bounces around in his head but not quite as loudly as  _Cas is still upstairs._

Behind him, Dean hears Victor shout for him, shout to come back and to man the hose and get the outside taken care of, but he shuts the commands out. He crashes inside the building. Inside, the halls are black with thick smoke, and the air smells like burning drywall and plastic. Dean sees Aidan with a cat in his arms – he sends Dean a questioning look, but he ignores it.

Cas is upstairs. Cas is trapped. Castiel is trapped inside his home, like Mary Winchester was trapped in hers. Dean swore, he fucking swore from four years old that he would never let anybody die like his mother did.

He can’t hear the thunk of his boots against the stairs as he runs up. His ears fill instead with the rush of blood, the crackle of flame, the constant ring of several fire alarms sounding at once.

Second floor.

It’s hard to breathe even with an oxygen mask, hard to move with so much equipment on his body. He says a silent prayer of thanks for every training session that he’s ever been to, for every day spent running with Cas and lifting at the gym. Every one of those moments was preparation for this.

Third floor.

It’s impossible to see through the blaze. Dean dodges columns of flame and thick smoke, running to their apartment. He slams his body against the door but it won’t budge, so he throws his weight against it again and again, bruising his side in his desperation.

When the door splinters, more smoke billows from the apartment.

“Cas?” Dean calls, “Cas!”

There’s no response.

Dean has never felt a terror like this, not even carrying baby Sammy and running for his life on his little legs out to the front yard. Gabe’s DVD case is aflame, burning plastic making breathing hell as the scent overwhelms the air. His lungs burn and scream for fresh air, but Dean’s brain says _no, no, no_ , because he has to find Cas.

He ducks past the melting DVDs and founds through low-burning flames on the carpet.

“Cas!” he shouts again, but there is still no response.

Christ, please let him be alive. Cas can’t die now, can’t die when they’re about to move into a new place, start on a fresh page, all that cheesy crap that couples do. They’re supposed to do that. They’re supposed to fight over used towels on the bathroom floor and debate about what they’re having for dinner. They’re supposed to have mid-life crises together. They’re supposed to _grow old_ together, goddamnit. That can’t end for Dean at twenty five. It can’t end, period. Cas isn’t allowed to die before he does. That’s just not how it’s going to goddamn work.

Their bedroom door is locked. He throws his weight against it and it flies open. More smoke.

There’s Cas.

Oh Christ.

He’s on the floor, passed out. Nothing’s on fire, but his eyes are closed and he’s reaching for the door. His leg’s in its place beside the bedside table – he must have gone to bed for the night, must’ve woken up to the fucking apartment on fire, and Gabriel couldn’t get to him because the idiot locked the bedroom door. Dean has never been angrier at Castiel than he is now, stupid bastard.

He dodges one of their boxes that’s still only filled halfway with books and hauls Castiel over his shoulders in a standard carry.

“Cas, come on,” he says, but he’s limp and unresponsive, a dead weight. He leaps to the window to see if they’ve put out a trampoline, but they haven’t, of course, because Dean wasn’t supposed to go further than the first floor. He was supposed to stay on the ground. But fuck orders, he’s gotta get Cas out of this hellhole.

Dean removes his oxygen mask and places it on Cas instead, securing it around his head.

“Angel, you can’t do this,” he says as he makes his way out of the bedroom. Cas is heavy on him, the heat closing in. The smoke smolders in Dean’s lungs. He knows he shouldn’t waste his air on talking, but he keeps going anyway, “Gotta live for me. Gotta stay alive, you know why? Because when we move into our new place, we’re getting a beagle. You can’t let me name the pooch on my own, baby, ‘else she’s gonna Zeppelin for sure.”

The living room is in flame. The fire has spread in the few minutes that Dean was in the bedroom with Cas. Goddamn old-ass furniture. None of it is flame retardant, and Gabe’s collections of vintage bullshit everywhere make for a veritable slew of fire-hungry things. Dean dodges through flame and ducks when a piece of the ceiling cracks and falls at his feet.

Fuck.

He’s not gonna get out of here.

They aren’t going to make it.

He’s so stupid. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

But it would have eaten him alive if he hadn’t even tried to get Cas out. At least this way, they can go out together. Surely the man upstairs will cut them a fuckin’ break and let them through the pearly gates. Dean can introduce Cas to his mom.

“She’d like you,” he tells Cas, and only then realizes that he’s crying, fucking _crying_ , in the middle of burning building, “I know she’ll like you, baby.”

The weight of Cas is bogging him down. He’s so tired, so goddamn tired. Maybe he should sit. Maybe he’ll just lie down, rest for a while, and then they can move on.

No.

No no no no no.

He’s not going to let a fire kick his ass. And maybe he’ll get snuffed out tonight, but there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that he’ll let fire take Castiel like he let it take his mom.

“See you soon, mom,” he mutters, and leaps through a wall of fire to the other side.

He runs.

He can’t make out anything outside in the hall, but he runs. He knows this apartment building like the back of his hand. He has a little time and a long-ass way to go, but fuck it, he’ll make it. Or Cas will. He runs like hell, sprinting through flame, hefting Cas further up on his shoulders. He glances back to make sure the oxygen mask is still in place, and it is. He can see Cas’ chest moving, just barely – but it’s there. That’s all the reassurance that he needs.

They’re halfway to the second floor when Dean’s oxygen-deprived brain realizes that Castiel never once heard confirmation that Dean loves him. And he does. He loves Cas more than he can fucking say, more than he’ll ever be able to put into words and more than any poet from any century has ever articulated.

“You know –” he gasps, panting for air, “You know why you can’t die? You know why, angel? Because I love you. You heard me. I fucking love the hell out of you, you stupid son of a bitch. If you die I swear on my father’s grave I will bring you back just to – just to kill you again.”

It’s getting harder to think, getting harder to string thoughts and movements of his body together. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this clusterfuck, just that he’s going to get Castiel out of it.  

Second floor.

This fire isn’t fucking around. The stairs are plastic and metal, so they’re harder to fuck with, but he can feel the soft material giving way underneath his boots, feel it surrendering to the heat of the fire.

Everything hurts.

He can’t talk to Cas anymore. It’s too hard to speak and breathe now. But he thinks everything that he wants to say _you can’t meet my mom until you’re at least eighty, you stupid fuck_ , and _I love you I love you I love you and you can’t die you can’t you can’t._

First floor.

He bursts through to the other side, out into the night where red and blue flash like paparazzi’s cameras, where people are crying and screaming. There’s the sound of the hose and there’s oxygen, sweet fucking oxygen, enough to fill Dean’s lungs and give his brain a kick in the ass toward the parade of ambulances on the periphery of the chaos.

“Winchester!” he thinks he hears.

“Dean!” Was that Gabe?

He sees paramedics, uniformed and ready for the fight. When they spot him running they swarm like bees, crowding him and Cas.

Dean lifts Cas off his shoulders with strength that he didn’t even know he had, something inhuman that adrenaline and terror are ripping out of him, and he lays him down on the gurney in the center of an empty ambulance.

“Sir,” one of the paramedics says, “Sir –”

“Gotta stay alive, Cas,” he says blearily, barely aware of his surroundings, “Gotta keep breathing for me, angel. ‘Cause I love you…love you fuckin’ lots, like…love you more than pie. Love you.”

His lungs seize up underneath his ribs, his heart palpitates, and his breath catches in his throat.

The world goes blurry and his body burns. He feels himself slip on the pavement, going down, down, down.

He only registers the words, “God-fucking-damn it, Dean,” before everything blissfully goes black.


	24. Never Felt Nothing Like a Warm, Safe Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for PTSD and alcoholism
> 
> We're in the final stretch -- I am so sorry that I'm posting this particular chapter in the wake of last night's episode but I promise that this fic does indeed have a happy ending.

**Chapter Track: Open Road – Scott H. Biram**

**_Never Felt Nothing Like a Warm, Safe Place_ **

His brain is heavy in his skull and his body is too hot for its skin. His leg, oh God, his leg.

Maybe he’s dead.

Samandriel’s lifeless eyes stare back, his mouth open, a line of blood draining from the corner of his lips, running over his filth-covered neck and into the collar of his uniform, the ragged, bloody mess that it is. Castiel screams for him to snap out of it, come back. It’s not over yet. Plenty of men have survived flying metal and bomb blasts.

And plenty have died, too.

Is he dead?

God, he prays he’s dead. He’s never hoped more to be on the threshold of Heaven’s gates. Saint Peter will usher him in and so help him he’ll live out eternity in a pool of books, laughing with Samandriel over their tour. They won’t talk about the suicide bomber. They’ll talk about Castiel’s thirtieth birthday and strip poker, about the families that they chose, not the blood running through their veins. The Deans of their worlds.

Dean.

Castiel’s world flips on its side – Dean, he shouldn’t know a Dean, Dean comes after Paktika. He comes after the blast, after physical therapy, after Gabriel’s apartment –

So he isn’t dead.

Then why the hell is he still in Afghanistan?

He’s surrounded by flame and chaos, by heat and screaming and pain, the crackle and pop of distant gunfire.

Castiel’s eyes shoot wide open and he screams, shouts and twists in his sheets. He only has one leg, only one. Nurses run to his side, hold him down and inject something in him, whisper reassuring words and tell him that it’s just a sedative and that he should rest, just go to sleep, just close his eyes.

He keeps shouting, shouting for Samandriel, because if he made it to the hospital, surely they found Samandriel, too.

The sedative starts to work magic in his veins. He feels himself melt and his mind evaporate. Under the sweet drug-induced haze, he sees a new visitor at his door. It looks like Gabriel. As in – his brother, Gabriel. A hallucination, most likely. He laughs a little, tossing his head against the pillow, and mumbles, “‘'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door. Only this, and nothing more.'”

Gabriel, or his apparition, rather, whistles and says, “Got you on the good stuff, huh?”

“Very good, yes,” Castiel confirms, “Because you are a _vivid_ hallucination.”

Gabriel frowns, “I’m not a hallucination, kiddo.”

“Do not call me – wait,” Castiel frowns, and squirms against his hospital bed, “Are you here to take me to Kansas?”

“Wrong place in the timeline, Cassie,” Gabriel says, and shoves his hands into the pockets of the bathrobe that he wears fastened around his body. Wait, why should he be wearing a bathrobe? This is a hospital.

It is only as Gabriel says, “Yeah, kind of all I had on when the building went up,” that Castiel realizes he’s revealed his musings aloud.

“Building,” he echoes faintly, “Your apartment. But I. I was just in Paktika.” No, he wasn’t. Was he?

“Sorry, baby bro, but you’re not in Afghanistan,” he says, “We’re still in Kansas.”

**X**

Nothing smells quite like a hospital. Office buildings can smell like hotels, motel bathrooms can smell like fast food joints, but nothing matches the sterile, chemical smell of _hospital_. That’s how Dean knows where he is even before he opens his eyes. It smells like clean, and like cheaply laundered fabric. He can hear the beep of a heart monitor before he feels the brush of a thin blanket against his forearms, the weight of a pulse monitor clipped to the forefinger on his left hand, the pressure of an IV shifting with the inside of his arm, and an itch like a goddamn ant colony has made their home on his legs.

“Son of a bitch,” he complains when he opens his eyes and blinks against the bright lights screwed in the ceiling.

His throat is dry and his skull feels as though it’s stuffed with cotton. A long groan tears from his throat at the flood of light and sensation.

Abruptly the scent of Calvin Klein cologne overtakes the antiseptic aroma of the room and a shadow passes over Dean, blocking out the fluorescent light overhead. It takes a moment for the shadow to come into focus, and when it does, it forms into the long-haired, concerned-eyebrows form of his younger brother.

What the everloving fuck?

“Sammy,” Dean rasps. His throat feels like sandpaper as he swallows and asks, “The hell is going on?”

“The apartment building burned down,” Sam says.

Dean wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Even if he couldn’t feel his heart speed up in his chest, the monitor he’s hooked up to would have told him – the machine begins to race and flames dance before Dean’s eyes. He threads together a collection of memories. Disobeying Victor. Aching lungs. Cas on the floor of their bedroom with his hand extended toward the door.

Oh, Christ. Cas.

“Sam,” Dean hoarsely says, and grabs at the sleeve of his brother’s plaid button-up, “Sammy, where’s Cas?”

“Calm down,” Sam says, glancing at the heart monitor, “Jesus, calm the fuck down. He’s fine. He woke up a couple hours ago. They said it was the oxygen that saved him. You inhaled a lot of smoke so, you know…cool it, for a second.”

Dean flicks his eyes over his brother, searching for signs of dishonesty. When he finds none, he slips back down onto his bed, head flopping back against the paper-covered pillow. If Cas is okay, he can calm down. For now. He reaches down to scratch at his legs.

But his fingertips come into contact with bandages, he withdraws and looks over to his brother to demand, “What the hell?”

“You have some burns on your legs,” Sam explains, “It’s not serious. I think. That’s what the doctor said, but I guess there are gonna be scars?”

Dean rolls his eyes heavenward and mutters, “Great.”

Sam runs a hand back through his long hair and exhales. He says, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Hey!” Dean protests.

“Sorry,” Sam scrambles to add, “It’s just – damn it, Dean. You fucking would. You would fucking run into a burning building that’s fucking falling apart at the seams. I just. You must love him a lot, dude. That's all. And I'm glad you're still alive.”

“Hm," Dean agrees, and then weakly jokes, "Tried my best not to be, looks like."

Sam makes a noise, a soft huff, and looks at the floor. There’s a small smile on his face when he lifts his gaze to agree, “Yeah,” but the expression fades and something darker replaces it. Dean opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Sam lifts his hand before he can get a syllable out, “It was an arsonist. That caused the fire, I mean. I don’t think they’ve caught him yet but they’ve put out an APB on – you’ll never guess who, by the way –”

“Just spit it out,” Dean complains.

“That shithead Azazel! You know, Alastair’s scuzzy lawyer? Turns out he wasn’t just his lawyer, but like, his cousin or something? And like, ten times more psycho than Alastair himself, which I know, hard to believe, but –”

“Are you serious?” Dean interrupts.

Sam quiets and replies with a steady nod. This confirmation stirs up a sick feeling in Dean’s gut. If Azazel set the building on fire, that means that Dean is at least partially responsible, if not wholly at fault. If Dean had never fallen low enough to get his dumb ass involved with Alastair in the first place, he’d never have been called to the witness stand during Alastair’s trial. Azazel wouldn’t have known his face, wouldn’t have known Dean at all, from any other Joe the Plumber off the street.

“Dean,” Sam says, “I know what you’re thinking, and stop it.”

Dean doesn’t have the energy to think of a retort beyond, “Bite me,” before he rolls over onto his side. The movement tugs uncomfortably at the IV in the crook of Dean’s elbow, but at least he doesn’t have to see the pity written all over his younger brother’s face.

**X**

His life is a waking nightmare. Between the cocktail of drugs, the slew of nurses and doctors filing in and out of his room, the nightmares that rage every time that he closes his eyes, and the distinct feeling of something being _missing_ , Castiel can’t think. He can’t breathe. He can’t function. Sometimes he sees Gabriel floating over his bedside with worry crumpling his face, but he can never remember if the face truly belongs to Gabriel, or if it belongs to his memories, or to his dreams.

From the snippets of conversation and pieces of lucidity that he has amassed, Castiel gathers that he has had some sort of breakdown, triggered by his home being on fire. But despite the number of times he attempts to tell himself this, his heart still clenches with the feeling of _lies, lies, lies_ , and he can’t tell anymore if he’s in a hospital in the continental United States or elsewhere. He wonders if perhaps the case is that he is in neither, and he is simply in the guts of Hell itself.

That must be what this is. What else could severe-faced nurses, processions of needles of mysterious fluids, and suspicious-looking green Jell-O for dessert be? Beyond that, the feeling of utter loneliness tears at the insides of his belly like feral animal, a constant and cloying emptiness that won’t go away.

So when Gabriel-slash-maybe-not-Gabriel follows a nurse in Winnie the Pooh scrubs into the tiny room and asks, “How’re you feeling?” Castiel answers honestly:

“Like shit.”

“Not surprising,” Gabriel says, “You look like shit, too. Massive shit. Like, dog shit smeared on a kid’s tennis shoe kind of shit.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. That’s charming,” Cas replies.

“At least you’ve got full sentences down now,” Gabriel tells him, and Cas doesn’t understand what he means by that. He drags a chair from the corner of the room to Castiel’s bedside and plops down into it with an exaggerated sigh, arms stretched over his head as he remarks, “Dean keeps asking about you. Wants to know how it’s going up in Cassie-land. Get it? Like, Candyland? No? Don’t say I’ve never tried.”

Castiel can barely comprehend what his brother-not-brother is saying to him, so he sticks with, “What in Heaven’s name are you trying to say to me?”

Gabriel laughs at this. It’s a tired laugh, or maybe relieved. Probably both.

He tries again, “Dean. Your partner, Dean? Kind of an idiot, argues with my booty call about Star Wars, Dean?”

“Oh,” Castiel manages. Dean. Yes, Dean. Of course there’s Dean. Why wouldn’t he remember Dean?

It frightens him, his lapses of memory, extending across far too much time for comfort. He can tell his brain that logically he knows he’s not in the hospital about to start physical therapy, about to learn how to walk with a prosthetic, but sometimes his mind thinks otherwise – it’s like…as though there’s a black hole inside his mind, gaping open and swallowing entire months of time whole, only spitting them back up when somebody sticks their hand inside the pit and searches for them.

And of course Dean is asking after him.

“I’ve kinda tried talking to you about it before, but uh,” Gabriel starts, and slides his fingers through his hair, “He’s holed up in here too. Not for much longer, if he has his way. He’s trying to flirt his way out of another overnight stay.”

“Why is Dean in the hospital?” Castiel asks, confused. Dean wasn’t there that night. He was at work. At least as far as he can recall, Castiel had been spending his evenings by himself, waking only briefly when Dean arrived back home in the small hours of the morning and snaked his limbs around Cas’ torso and legs.

Gabriel makes a face and says, “He was the one that got you outta the fire, kiddo.”

To this, Castiel can only repeat, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, “Those fucking assholes. They said they couldn’t get you out, but Dean’s guys showed up and as soon as I said you were trapped he was halfway to the fucking building. Pity he couldn’t save my vinyl collection while he was up there.”

Castiel is partway into making a snide comment about how he feels being valued at the same level as a material collection, but realizes that Gabriel is joking and goes silent.

“We really owe him one,” Gabriel mutters.

“Yes…I suppose we do,” Castiel agrees, and that empty feeling inside him fills up with something much worse – longing.

**X**

Later on the same day, after the sun has set, Gabriel leaves but Sam Winchester ducks into Castiel’s room and tells him that Dean’s been discharged. He wants to visit Castiel, he says, but he’s on pain medication and doesn’t make much sense, so Sam is driving him home instead.

“Okay,” is all that Castiel can say.

“I’ll bring him to visit tomorrow,” Sam says, “I’m kind of pushing it as is,” and he glances over at the brown-eyed, crabby looking nurse with her arms folded beside him.

“Okay,” Cas says again.

After that, Sam leaves and the hospital is too quiet for comfort. He ends up using the remote on his little bedside setup to switch on the television across the room, just to fill the silence. He flicks through the channels, searching for something familiar that he watches with Dean or Gabriel, but finds only late-night television and infomercials for products Castiel isn’t certain anybody has ever needed. He settles at last on the news and lets the quiet buzz of the anchors’ voices lull him into a half-sleep.

He wakes only a half hour later, long enough for his dreams to swallow him. The television is still on but the lights overhead are off, and the whole room is cast in bluish light as the late news flickers on the screen. Castiel tries to shove aside his nightmare and focuses instead on the show.

Oh. That’s his apartment building on the screen, up in flames. He watches sirens flash and crowds of people in pajamas huddle outside.

“ _Fire chief Victor Henriksen limited the fight to the lowest level of the building, but according to recent sources, one firefighter disobeyed and saved one more life. Gabriel Novak, it was your brother that was trapped on the third floor, is that correct?”_

The scene switches to Gabriel in front of a motel, arms folded over his chest. His name flashes across the lower part of the screen: “Gabriel Novak – Victim of fire.” Castiel snorts. Gabriel would not be pleased with that moniker. It should have said, “Gabriel Novak – Lost his vinyl collection in the fire.”

The on-screen Gabriel says, _“Correctamundo, Michelle. Can I call you Michelle?”_

Castiel rolls his eyes. Leave it to Gabriel to flirt when he’s being interviewed about his hospitalized brother.

“ _My brother’s a disabled vet. He’d already gone to bed when the alarms went off and locked his door. I couldn’t bail him out, so when Dean came, I begged him to_.”

 _“Dean – that’s the name of the firefighter that saved your brother’s life_?”

“ _Yessiree. He lives with us. He’s Castiel’s – that’s my little brother – he’s his partner. Kid would do anything to keep his family safe.”_ Gabriel’s tone suggests an unspoken, _that fucking idiot._

The television switches back to the apartment building, where a camera focuses on the backlit shape of a firefighter bursting from the building. The news anchor talks over the scene, but Castiel can’t tear his eyes away, horrified at what he’s seeing. That’s – it’s him, slung over Dean’s shoulders in a classic carry. Dean’s face is pale and streaked with ash, and his oxygen mask is not secured over his face, but over Castiel’s nose and mouth instead.

“ _A touching scene, as you can see. Can we get the sound, Rob_?” Michelle-the-news-anchor says.

The scene bursts to life, filled with shrill sirens, shouting, crying children and the crackle of all-consuming flame. The camera follows Dean as he runs across the parking lot. His breath sounds terrible, horrible and uneven. The news team is clearly following Dean, honing in him, though he appears to not have noticed at all. He heaves Castiel inside an ambulance, and over the sound of the wreck, Cas hears his voice, familiar but changed from tasting too much smoke –

“ _Gotta keep breathing for me, angel. ‘Cause I love you…love you fuckin’ lots, like…love you more than pie. Love you._ ”

“Oh,” Castiel says, for what feels like the hundredth time that day.

“ _A touching_ _scene_ ," she repeats, _"Shortly after that shot was taken, Dean Winchester fell unconscious and was transported to the hospital to be treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation. He was discharged from the hospital earlier this evening, and though we couldn’t arrange for an in-person interview, he had this to say:”_

“ _I didn’t have to think about it, lady. I’d risk anything for Cas. No matter how many times you tell me I’m a hero, I’m not gonna believe it. I’m not a hero. I did what anybody would. I was looking out for my family._ ” That’s Dean’s voice.

Stupid Dean. Stupid, brave Dean.

Michelle’s voice returns and she reports, “ _Castiel Novak, meanwhile, remains in the hospital, having suffered aftereffects of oxygen deprivation and other complications_.” His screwed-up head, they mean, but it doesn’t make good news to talk about PTSD after they’ve just reported on such an act of heroism, would it? People like to think that heroes make it out of terrible situations without any consequences.

“ _The Douglas County police and fire investigators soon determined that the apartment fire was the product of arson, and due to the building’s construction in the 1970s and poor fire code adherence, the flames spread faster than they would in an average building. The perpetrator has been identified as Alexander Azazel – apparently also connected to Dean Winchester, as he represented his cousin Alastair Elliot in a controversial murder case in which Mr. Winchester was a witness just over a year ago._ ”

Castiel has to turn off the television.

Arson.

Castiel has been thrust in the middle of this disaster because of arson.

He tries to relax into his pillow but finds himself unsettled by this information. Unsettled and angry. He’s surprised at how furious he is. At first he thinks that he’s angry at Azazel for what he did, and yes, that anger is there, but it’s larger than that. He’s angry at the building’s manager for neglecting the fire code. He’s angry at himself for locking his bedroom door before he retired to bed.

And he’s angry at Dean. Castiel tries to reason that it wasn’t Dean’s fault, but –

But it was his fault. He involved himself with that seedy lowlife, that Alastair Elliot, and they all suffered for it. Castiel and Gabriel suffered for it, and so did every resident of the building.

Yes, he is very much angry at Dean.

**X**

Flames reflect in Samandriel’s lifeless eyes. The smells of ash and blood and gunfire overwhelm his senses. White hot pain erupts from his right leg, so intense all he can do is cry out. His head is heavy and floating all at once. Sand and ash stick to the tear tracks on his face.

This is the end. He will die as Samandriel is dead alongside him.

Castiel was raised to believe in a loving God, but he doesn’t not know that this is the work of that God. Who could be so cruel? Gentle Samandriel, who loved to paint but enlisted because it what was his parents wanted him to do, did not deserve to die.

Castiel did not deserve to die either. He could have had another life. He could have been a teacher. But no, this is his fate, to be swallowed whole by hatred and destruction, to die alone and in pain – the only evidence of his suffering being an American flag folded into a triangle and presented to his family.

He screams for help, but no one hears him.

**X**

His own scream jars him from sleep. Castiel kicks his blanket off of his body and rips the IV out of his arm just as two heavyset nurses rush into the room. He’s weakened from his ordeal in Paktika, but he knows he can still fight them. He throws himself out of his hospital bed, only to find that he no longer has a right leg. He collapses in a heap on the floor.

He still struggles when the nurses heave him up by his arms, shouting for backup, for help.

They insert a needle into his arm, inject him with something, and haul him back onto his bed. He shouts at them and calls them names but the nurses don’t speak to him, just restrain him in the bed and reattach him to all his machines.

The drugs settle into his system soon afterward, Castiel’s muscles relaxing without him telling them do so.

It takes several long minutes of swearing and heavy breathing to distinguish the sterile smell of hospital out of explosives. There are no explosives here. This is a hospital, he reasons.

It is a hospital in Lawrence, Kansas, and he is here because of complications after an arsonist set fire to his brother’s apartment building. The arsonist is named Alexander Azazel, and he started the fire to seek revenge against Dean.

At the thought of Dean, raw rage rushes over Castiel’s skin like a wave of tiny needles. It is naturally during this wave that the victim of his fury decides to appear. Dean Winchester knocks on the frame of the door to Castiel’s room, looking a little worse for the wear but still smiling when he steps in. His gray-green eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Heya, angel, how you feeling?” he asks, “‘Cause I gotta tell you, I’ve been missin’ you like crazy. Sammy’s supposed to take off for California tomorrow, so that leaves just me and Gabe. You know how that’s gonna go.”

“Yes,” Castiel says shortly.

“You okay?” Dean asks. He makes a grab for the chair in the corner.

Castiel growls, “Don’t.”

Dean turns, “Huh?”

“Don’t,” Castiel repeats, and zeroes his hardest gaze on Dean’s oblivious face, “I don’t want you here.”

“What?” Dean says, “Like, it’s a bad time? The doc said you had a nightmare, so –”

“Yes, I had a nightmare,” Castiel replies acidly, voice low, “I’ve been having a lot of fucking nightmares, Dean. Do you know why I am having nightmares again? Because I almost died in a burning building, that’s why I’m having nightmares. I can’t relax without being drugged, and half the time I’m convinced I’m in Paktika and that Gabriel’s a hallucination. You – you stupid man.”

“Me,” Dean says, and then, “What did I do?”

“You set the goddamn fire,” Castiel says, with a wave of his arm. He grunts at the discomfort of the IV pulling in his arm and says, “Because you fucked a man you knew was dangerous. You let Alastair Elliot fuck you and you _told the world_ you let him fuck you, and apparently you’re _surprised_ when the same dangerous man has a cousin that sets buildings on fire.”

“Cas,” Dean says.

“Don’t!” Cas says, only now he’s yelling, “Leave me alone! I was getting better. I could almost have been normal. But you – you fucking _ruined_ _everything._ I should have listened to Gabriel from the start, should have known better than to involve myself with a…with a criminal. Get _out_.”

Dean’s lips part as though he means to say something. Good. Castiel dares him to. Yes, dares him to say to him both why he’s wrong.

But instead, Dean breaks eye contact and lowers his eyes to the floor, shoulders hunched up to make himself smaller, the same way he used to stand when they’d only just met. He licks his lips when he looks back up and gives a faint nod, “Okay,” he says, “You’re right.”

Castiel expects to feel satisfaction at seeing Dean’s face crumple, internal battle written on his face – but the brokenness written there makes him reconsider.

Dean turns to leave, but pauses on the threshold and turns back halfway to mumble, “I hope you get better, Castiel.”

**X**

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam demands.

Dean doesn’t say a damn thing, just packs the rest of his shit into his duffel. He doesn’t have much crap, especially after the fire, but they’d moved enough boxes to their new apartment that some things survived. A box marked ‘DEAN’ in Castiel’s neat print sits open in the middle of the empty living room. Most of the contents are clothes, but Dean’s hand brushes against something solid.

He lifts a Batman comic book from the bottom of his box. Great condition, 1960s. The Christmas gift that Castiel gave him during Dean’s first real Christmas in years.

He places it back in the box.

Dean closes his fist around the keys to the Impala in the pocket of his jeans and zips up his duffel with the other hand. He slings the bag over his shoulder and heads toward the apartment door. Sam’s hand shoots out and yanks him back by the shoulder.

“Dean, come on,” Sam says, “What the fuck happened?”

“Nothing,” Dean says.

“It’s not nothing,” Sam insists.

Dean wrenches himself out of his brother’s grip and walks out the door.

Sam follows after him and says, “I’m not stupid. I know this isn’t ‘nothing,’ jerk.”

Dean ignores him.

“Please,” Sam says.

They’re downstairs now, almost to the front entrance to the building. This was going to be it, their home. His very own home with Cas. He even looked online for beagle rescues, because he knew Cas wanted a dog and even if Dean didn’t want one nearly as much, he wanted Cas happy.

And if Cas’ll be happier without him, then that’s where Dean will be.

“Where are you going?” Sam demands when Dean opens the trunk to his baby and throws his belongings inside.

“Away,” Dean says, but when he looks up and sees the helpless fear on Sam’s face, he feels obligated to add, “I don’t know. Probably Bobby’s. Don’t got anyplace else to go.”

“Why? Please, can you just explain –”

“Cas – Castiel doesn’t want me here anymore,” Dean says, and with every ounce of control tries to keep his voice from shaking, “And I’m gonna respect that. Take care of yourself, Sammy.”

“Dean!”

He ignores his brother and climbs into the front seat, letting the purr of his baby’s engine fill his ears. Sam shouts at him again, so he turns up his music, something loud and furious that’ll keep his thoughts at bay. When he pulls the Impala out of his parking space and heads for the road, Sam jogs after him.

Dean watches in the rearview mirror as he turns right out of the lot, watches Sam chase after him. He stops on the curb.

He shrinks behind him as Dean gets as far away from Lawrence as he can.

He’d known that the fire was his fault. He’d known that already. You didn’t have to tell him twice when something was his fault. He always knows. But he’d also thought – or maybe hoped –

He’d hoped that Cas wouldn’t think that, too. Because Cas had faith in him. Cas treated him like he was worth something, like he wasn’t some criminal with a fucked up childhood and nothing to offer the world but his mouth and his ass.

But hoping for something like that was stupid, wasn’t it? Especially for somebody like him.

When the Impala climbs up the on-ramp onto the highway, he feels a little number. Watching the highway stretch out in front of him like a spool of unraveled ribbon blankets him in the old, musty feeling of finding someplace new, of escaping. He remembers this exact feeling when Sam yelled at him, said all those nasty things to him and he ran out while the gettin’ was good.

All his goddamn life, there’s been jack shit he’s done right. He’d thought that for fucking once he was getting a break, for once he’d found where he belonged – a place that he wanted to stay, a place that he could call home. Figures he’d screw that up somehow, too.

Frozen and exhausted, he drives. And drives and drives. Two hours in, he stops for gas and picks up liquor. He wonders if he should eat, but doesn’t feel hungry. He feels empty, but not hungry.

Whiskey warms him and Lynyrd Skynyrd drowns out his thoughts. He rolls down the windows and blasts down the highway, letting the crunch of wheels over tar and the cold wind whipping at his hand take the sensations out of his head, out from the place under his ribs that’s hurting like hell, like someone’s sliced and diced him and sewn him back together just to laugh at what he’s become.

He tips back whiskey and doesn’t cry.

**X**

Dean thinks about turning back when Singer Salvage Yard is within his sights. Bobby won’t want to see him like this, drunk and miserable, crawling back to his crappy childhood with his proverbial tail between his legs. But another part of him, a bigger part of him, wants to smell Bobby’s cooking and feel the comfort of old things. So he pulls around to the back of Bobby’s house.

For a long time, he just sits in the Impala, sipping at the half-drunk bottle of cheap whiskey in his clutch. The liquor helps dampen all the crap riled up in his gut and silences the reel of ugly things running through his head.

Figures he’d end up like this. Just like his dad, like John goddamn Winchester, alcoholic and idiot extraordinaire, a weak man that couldn’t take the shit hand life dealt him with anything resembling grace.

Anger rips out of the numbness.

Dean stumbles out of the Impala, past skeletons of cars and rusted-out beauties. He trips around overgrown weeds and debris, sloshing whiskey down the front of his shirt. Before he even realizes where his feet are taking him, he’s there.

He stands in front of the crude headstone stuck in the ground behind Bobby’s, the stone that reads _John._

“Fuck you,” he says to it.

Dean aims a kick at the headstone, but that works against him, and he swears loudly as his boot connects with solid stone.

More quietly, he repeats to the grave, “Fuck you.”

And then, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU!”

Dean throws the bottle of whiskey. Glass smashes against crude letters, and whiskey soaks the weed-ridden soil. He laughs at that, a bitter, broken noise, and says, “Hope you like Jack Daniels, dad. I know you do. Gave the same crappy vice to me, you stupid fucking bastard. I hope that makes you proud, jackass. Take a good long look at your stupid, alcoholic, criminal waste-of-space son. Take a good long fucking look. I took just after my daddy. You should be fucking proud, you piece of shit.”

“Dean? Is that you?”

Dean whirls around.

Bobby’s standing behind him, shotgun in hand. When he sees Dean, he drops the gun on the ground with a soft, “Aw, hell,” and rushes forward.

Bobby wraps one thick arm around Dean’s shoulders and guides him away from John’s whiskey-splattered grave. He says, “Just…come inside, you stupid idjit,” and retrieves his shotgun from the ground before he brings Dean through the back door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Dean drinking and driving is incredibly ill-informed and Not Okay In Any Way.


	25. Fought My Way Up to the Sun

**Ending Credits: As Long as I Have You (cover) – The Detroit Cobras**

**_Fought My Way Up to the Sun_ **

Dean asks for a beer once he and Bobby are safely ensconced in the warmth of his kitchen. Bobby smacks his hand and makes him sit and tells him no. Instead, he fixes a him a cup of black coffee, cheap, watery instant stuff, but strong enough to bring Dean back into the present.

Reality hits him like the force of a deadly car crash. He drove all the way to Sioux falls, and was drunk for most of the journey. He threw a bottle of whiskey at his father’s grave. Cas doesn’t want him anymore, like he figured he would happen so long ago, but had started hoping wouldn’t. Figures he shouldn’t have put that much stock in hope.

Bobby sits across from him at the kitchen table and folds his weathered hands together. He doesn’t speak, but he studies Dean from under the shadow of the bill of his cap with knowing eyes, like he knows what Dean is going to say as soon as he pulls his lips from the brim of his ceramic mug.

“You gonna tell me what in the darn hell you’re doin’ up here sloshed outta your mind?” Bobby asks, “I ain’t stupid, boy. Lawrence is fuckin’ six hours away. You don’t just make a freakin’ jaunt to my place.”

Dean thumbs along the handle of the mug, staring into the oily top of his half-drunk coffee. He gnaws on his dried-out, flaking lips before he says to the liquid, “I screwed up.”

“That so?” Bobby says, and leans back into his chair. He lifts his brows and drums his fingers against the table, waiting for Dean to go on. But Dean doesn’t go on, so Bobby continues to fill the silence, “’Cause what I heard was that you done some good.”

“Yeah, guess some folks are saying that,” Dean concedes.

“But?”

“But it’s not true, Bobby,” Dean says. He swallows the knot in his throat, sucking on his tongue, before he says, “Cas – Castiel, I fucked him up. That freakazoid lawyer set our building on fire. He did it ‘cause I was there.”

Bobby’s hand shoots across the expanse of the table. His palm connects with the side of Dean’s head.

“Ow! What the fuck, Bobby?” Dean rubs the tender side of his head.

“Goddamn idjit,” Bobby snaps back, “Here’s a question for you, boy. If it weren’t you that got the shit end a’ the stick with this Alastair guy, if it were some other fool kid, you think his kook lawyer wouldn’t a’ done the same damn thing to that guy?”

“But he didn’t do it to another guy. He did it to me. He did it ‘cause of me,” Dean says.

Bobby just shakes his head and folds his arms over his burly chest, “You’re gonna be the death of me, swear on my mama’s grave. Finish your coffee and get in bed, idjit. We’ll talk about this when you’re not drunk off your dumb ass.”

Dean mutters, “Do we have to?” which earns him a second smack to the side of his head.

When Dean drains his mug, Bobby snatches it off the table and rinses it out. He returns to the table to heave Dean back up onto his feet, wrapping a steel-strong arm around his middle to navigate him up the stairs while Dean complains about his sloshing head and clumsy feet.

He gets dumped on the bed in his childhood room, and vaguely feels his boots being unlaced and pulled off his feet. The blanket slides up over him and Bobby’s drawl says, “Get some sleep, kid.”

**X**

Dean leaves the room feeling cold. When Castiel looks down, his hands are shaking.

When an apple-cheeked nurse with a clipboard ducks through the doorway, he realizes the weight of what he has done.

Oh, good lord. He wants to get up, wants to chase Dean down the hospital corridor and tell him that he didn’t mean any of those things, that he’s so sorry. How could he – how could he treat somebody like that? His mind is a muddle of mixed memories, a mess of things in places where he shouldn’t be.

He wants to – no, needs to chase after Dean. He needs to tell him that he’s sorry for everything that just came out of his mouth, that he did not mean a single would that he said.

But he doesn’t have a prosthetic anymore, because it was in the apartment building when it burned to ashes. Without his prosthetic, he can’t get up out of this godforsaken hospital bed. He is trapped like a rat in a cage.

“Excuse me,” he says, and the nurses jumps. Marvelous. He apparently frightens the hospital staff, now.

“Yes?” she says, voice timid.

“Would it be possible to call my brother Gabriel?” he says. He tries to sound calm but each word shakes as it leaves his mouth. He’s upset that he’s here, that he’s trapped in this stupid bed, but beyond that he’s upset at himself. He’s in the present now. He’s in the present, and he knows what he said to Dean.

“Of course,” she says, shoulders sagging with relief.

A mere twenty minutes later, Castiel is so restless that he’s ready to crawl out of his skin – and Gabriel arrives. He looks panicked, and then stricken when he sees Castiel sitting straight up in bed, hands folded in his lap. He makes a face before he asks, “Are you…what’s going on? I feel like I just got sent to the principal’s office.”

On any other day, Castiel may have afforded that with a laugh, but he’s _stuck here_ and he needs to _get out_ immediately. Before he can speak, however, a second visitor ducks through the doorway.

Oh.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says.

“Don’t you ‘hello, Sam’ me,” he snaps, “What the fuck did you do to my brother?”

“I –”

“He just left me sitting on the fucking curb outside your apartment,” Sam goes on with a flourish of his arms, “Seriously? He just – took off! What did you do?”

Gabriel glances from Cas to Sam and back again before he asks, “Yeah. What _did_ you do?”

“Something awful,” Cas says, “and stupid. I need to talk to him. Do you know where he went?”

“He said he was going to Bobby’s,” Sam replies.

All the way to Sioux Falls?

Oh. Oh, fuck. Castiel sinks further back into his bed.

He had one good thing. One good thing for himself, one person in his life that made it seem like – like he didn’t live for nothing, like he had survived what Samandriel didn’t for a purpose. He knows he’s told Dean that he loves him, but he doesn’t say those words enough. Dean should hear them every day, from everyone.

And Castiel has ruined it all. He was doing so well. His nightmares only came every so often. He hadn’t had a flashback in months. At their last session, Chuck said that he was proud of Castiel. But of course he ruined that. Of course he couldn’t keep himself together.

Everything that Castiel worked hard for broke in an instant.

“I broke everything,” he says. His eyes burn and he feels a little bit of wet leak out over his cheek, “I told him that the fire was his fault. I shouted at him. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. I never would have – why can’t I just be _okay_?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Gabriel says, “Chill out, kiddo. We can still fix this. You said Dean said he was going to Bobby’s, right?”

Sam says, “Well, I guess – he said ‘away,’ but then he said probably Bobby’s. He doesn’t have another place to go, I don’t think, but he didn’t have a place to go when he ran off to Lawrence in the first place. I’ll tell Bobby to text me if Dean shows up there.”

“All right, all right,” Gabriel nods, “That’s good. Cassie, I’m gonna give sweet ol’ Pamela a call and see if maybe she can get something worked out here. You’re not supposed to be released for a while, but…”

“Just get me out of here,” Cas grunts.

“On it,” Gabriel says, and he pulls his cellphone out of his pocket before he disappears down the hall.

Beside him, Sam exhales through his nostrils and runs both hands through his hair. He asks, “How could you just do that to him? I don’t – I don’t understand.”

 Castiel swallows and balls his fists against his eyes – traitorous, leaking eyes – before he answers softly, “Sam, I…I’m not okay. I apologize for that, but I – I may never be entirely ‘okay.’ I’ve seen things I never thought that I would have to see and it’s – i-it’s no excuse, I know, but I took it out on Dean and I just…broke it.”

Sam massages his temples and says, “Yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry. You’ve done so much good for him, it’s just – I don’t wanna see that go to waste, you know? Dean – he, well. He’ll never admit it, but he needs somebody. He thinks he’s better off on his own, I know he does, but it’s not true. Everyone needs somebody, and for a long time he had me, you know? But now I’m off doing crap on my own and he didn’t have anybody to lean on, anybody to take care of. But then I thought – he has you, you know? And you and Dean, you just. You worked. I’ve been so happy for him, ‘cause like, he had you and you had him and you’ve just been like…this unit.”

Castiel nods. It’s all he can do before he says, “I will not let that go to waste, Sam. I promise.”

“Good,” Sam says, and then repeats it with a nod, “Good.”

**X**

It’s too early to be alive.

A splitting headache courses through him like Thor himself just slammed Mjölnir into his skull. Dean hasn’t been this hungover in years. He doubts that the drink is the only thing to blame. He’s hungover emotionally. Like, son of a bitch. He’s done it again, fucked up what he good he had going in his life.

It’s just – when he pictures his life without Cas there in it, it feels fucking empty. It feels as empty as it felt when he thought he’d never speak to Sammy again after their falling out so many years ago.

It’s fucking pathetic, is what that is.

At his back he hears a door creak open, and the heavy sound of rubber-soled boots on hardwood. He groans into the pillow smothering his face, and then hears Bobby say, “Good, you’re up.”

“Fuck off.”

_Smack._

“Ow,” Dean complains, and rolls over, groaning again when daylight assaults every one of his senses. His stomach gets sent into overdrive, and he leans over the edge of the mattress to hurl up what few, watery contents he has in his gut. It burns on the way up – still mostly whiskey and cheap instant coffee.

Bobby leaps back and swears, “Oh, Jesus!”

“Sonuva – sorry, Bobby,” Dean says.

“S’okay, son,” Bobby replies on an exasperated sigh. He steps over the puddle of vomit to press a glass of tap water and a couple of aspirin into Dean’s hands, commanding, “Drink.”

Dean obeys despite the lurch in his stomach that tells him not to, downing the pills in one gulp before he finishes the rest of the water and sets the glass aside on the bedside table, next to the coffee can of flowers. Bobby stands and watches him do it all, nose crinkled at the mess on the floor. When Dean finishes he says, “Now, you’re gonna go shower while I clean this shit up, and then we’re gonna have a discussion, you hear me?”

Dean doesn’t respond to this but with a noise of frustration. Bobby just shakes his head and turns on his heel, stalking out the door.

It takes far too long for Dean to convince himself that it’s worth it to get out of bed. In the end, what does it is one glare from Bobby, when he returns with a bottle of cleaner in one hand and a checkered rag in the other.

A hot shower is either exactly what he needs or exactly the opposite. On one hand, the hot water rolling down his back does wonders for his hangover – or maybe that’s just the aspirin kicking in. On the other hand, with the silence behind the patter of water beating down on the shower floor, Dean has time to think. If there’s one thing that he doesn’t want to do right now, it’s think. He doesn’t want to think about apartment buildings going up in flames or blue eyes narrowed in anger. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s supposed to be at the station working again next week, doing his duty to the public just like he always wanted to do.

Fuck.

He likes living in Lawrence. Sure, he’s got shitty memories tucked between seedy alleys and the lots behind strip clubs, but the good memories outnumber those by far. He has his first Christmas with Cas, laughing while closing up Trickster in the early hours of the morning with Charlie, watching Batman with Cas, dancing to _I Need You_ with Cas at that biker bar, or…

Everything with Cas, he guesses. Even their fights. Even when Dean found out Cas wore a prosthetic and reacted badly and Cas threw a beer bottle at his head and missed.

Even that.

So how the hell is he supposed to live in Lawrence when he knows he’ll feel Cas there with him? He’ll do that pathetic thing where he’ll wonder what Cas is doing when he’s supposed to be worrying about other shit, like his job or if he’s out of toilet paper – and then he’ll think about how Cas is doing at school or if Cas is running out of toilet paper.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

A knock jerks Dean from self-pity, followed up by Bobby calling out a rough, “Kid, you okay in there?”

“Fine,” he responds.

“You been in there for forty-five,” Bobby says back, “You plannin’ on coming out anytime soon?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Just give me a minute.”

“…’Kay. If it’s more than ten I’m bustin’ in there whether you’re still in your birthday suit or not,” Bobby warns.

Dean scrubs himself clean with generic ivory soap and the vaguely fruity shampoo that Bobby bought and has still sitting there from when Anna and her girls came up for Christmas. He shuts off the water, head still heavy with the aftereffects of alcohol, and towels himself dry. When he returns to the bedroom, he finds a fresh set of clothing that Bobby left out for him. The t-shirt and pair of paint-spattered jeans are much too big on him, but he feels better when he shrugs on one of Bobby’s old flannels. The fabric smells like Bobby, like bargain detergent and practicality.

When Dean makes his way into the kitchen, he reaches for one of the bottles in Bobby’s liquor cabinet. This earns him a smack on wrist and a muttered, “Like hell,” before another mug of shitty coffee gets placed between his palms.

Dean hunches over the table. The smell of the watery brew in front of him makes his gut twist a little. Bobby must read the nausea on his face, because a beaten Tupperware bowl lands in front of Dean and Bobby says, “You need to barf, you aim for that.”

“Thanks,” manages Dean.

“You gonna bother tellin’ me what the heck you’re doin’ at my place, now?” he finally asks.

Dean thumbs the warm rim of the mug and says, “Kinda a long story.”

“I got time.”

Dean finally dares to swallow some coffee and says, “Cas, he – fuck, I dunno, Bobby. He told me it was my fault and he told me to get out.”

“Dagnabbit,” Bobby complains, “That boy.”

“He ain’t a boy, Bobby,” Dean points out.

“No, he sure as shit ain’t,” he agrees, “He should know better. The hell does he get off sayin’ something like that?”

Dean wets his lips and says, “I think, uh. I think the fire stirred up some crap from his tour.”

“Aw, balls,” Bobby affords this, “Then you gotta know he don’t got his head on straight.”

“Maybe,” Dean shrugs, “Maybe he meant it.”

“I doubt it, boy,” Bobby says. Then he leans forward, “Tell you what. You take some time here. Coupla days at most, though. Then I want you back in Lawrence and I want you to _talk_ to him, you got that?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, though he has no intention of ‘talking’ whatsoever, “Yeah, got it.”

“Good.”

“Good,” agrees Dean.

After a silent few minutes, Bobby stands and says, “Hate to leave you like this, boy, but I got work I gotta handle. But you need anything, you just holler.”

“Sure, Bobby,” Dean says.

Sure.

**X**

The cavalry free Cas.

A combination of Chuck, Pamela, and the acquisition of quad cane for Castiel to walk with in the interim gets him an early release signed and stamped. Castiel thanks both doctors, but doesn’t both lingering. He needs a change of clothes, and then he needs Dean.

Gabriel drives both Castiel and Sam to the apartment building that Cas intended to share with Dean. His stomach lurches at the conglomeration of cardboard boxes stacked in empty places. Only one box is open, one of the boxes that reads ‘DEAN’ across the side in marker. Cas hobbles toward it, off-balance and slow without the use of a prosthetic and only barely aided by the quad cane.

It’s empty but for one thing: the comic book that Castiel purchased for Dean during their first Christmas together.

Oh.

“Kiddo, we’re here to get you changed into some better clothes, remember?” Gabriel says from behind him.

Right. Gabriel brought him clothing from the nearby Walgreen’s to change into, but they’re cheap and itchy and don’t fit right. Some of his clothing burned up in the fire, but most of it is here, in his new home. At Castiel’s instruction, Gabriel opens a box near to the fake fireplace against the wall at the far left of the apartment. From it, Castiel grabs whatever’s on top. He escapes to the bathroom to change and manages well enough considering.

Sam tries to help him to Gabriel’s Audi.

“No,” Cas says in return.

The first half of the car trip consists of Gabriel swearing at rush hour traffic and Sam getting on the phone with his airline to cancel his flight and reschedule for a different one, and then calling Jess to explain that he won’t be back home for at least another couple of days.

The ride is tense and uncomfortable – none of them speak, even when Gabriel turns on some pop song that Castiel can’t stand. He knows his brother is doing it to try and garner a response, and he won’t give him the satisfaction.

As soon as they break from the confines of the city, it’s much easier. They’re quicker, though they have to stop to fill up the Audi’s tank and refuel themselves with coffee and corner store snacks. Castiel tries to eat, but can’t. He thought he would be relieved to have food that wasn’t from the hospital, but the thought of eating anything makes his gut turn.

All that he can think about is Dean.

_Dean._

Dean, whose face he watched fall when words that shouldn't have been his own came out of his mouth. Dean, whose smiles became little treasures every time Castiel could coax one out of him. Dean, who is just as damaged, just as hurting, just as fucked-in-the-head as Castiel is. Dean, who loves fiercely even if he doesn't always say it out loud. 

Castiel hopes that Dean still loves him even after what he said.

"Gabriel, why are you slowing down?" he asks, jerking his head up from where he's pressed his cheek to the window glass, so far gone in panic and need to get to Sioux Falls, to get to Dean.

“Cassie, we gotta stop for the night,” Gabriel finally says.

They’ve been at it for hours, but the highway traffic slowed them down too much, and while they’re only a few hours out of Sioux Falls, Gabriel looks like he’s about to fall asleep at the wheel.

“Okay,” Cas concedes.

Gabriel exits the highway and pulls into the parking lot of a cheap motel in a tiny town made up of only a clutch of houses, some mobile homes and trailers, a few gas stations and fast food establishments – and the motel.

The room that they rent smells musty, and Castiel has to share one of the beds with Gabriel, and he feels awful knowing that they’ve had to stop on the way to Dean. He feels sick to his stomach, so angry with himself that he tosses and turns. He catches Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, a look of concern clouding his face. Castiel has no right to that concern, but of course. Of course he has it. Because Sam Winchester is a good man and is his friend, and Dean Winchester is the most amazing man and the man that Castiel loves. The Winchesters are good people, even when they've been scorned, even if they lie, even when they argue. At heart, they are good. Better than Castiel, in any case.

Dean is the reason that he can’t sleep. He is sorry, so sorry, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to articulate all the thoughts reeling through his mind. His brain tortures him with the image of Dean’s face deflating like punctured tire, like Castiel had taken all the good out of him with just those few words, taken everything from him.

At two in the morning, he reaches for his Gabriel’s phone where it’s plugged into the wall – Castiel’s has yet to be replaced – and texts to Dean’s number that he’s so sorry and he’s on his way, before he realizes that Dean’s cellphone went up in flames, too.

Anxiety keeps him awake for the rest of the stay. He doesn’t shower the following morning like Gabriel and Sam insist upon doing, and with shadows under his eyes follow them to the car after checkout so that they can drive through McDonald’s for a to-go breakfast.

His McMuffin – or whatever the hell it is – tastes bland, but the coffee isn’t terrible. Being on the road eases his fretting mind while simultaneously aggravating it.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Sam finally says, “Just – stop worrying, okay? Dean’s definitely at Bobby’s. I got a text from him last night.”

Good, that’s definitely good.

The road seems to go on forever, and Castiel wants Gabriel to speed more than a mere fifteen miles per hour over the speedlimit. Gabriel refuses, though they both know that the car could accomplish it. 

"Kiddo, it'll slow us down more if we get pulled over by the fuzz," Gabriel points out, and Castiel wants to accept that and shut his mouth, because at least his brother is helping him, even after he's been so terrible.

Still, he turns to Sam and asks, “Can you – can you text to Bobby that I said that I’m sorry and that I’m going to be there soon?” His face heats with shame and he’s upset that he had to resort to asking his partner’s brother to text his adopted father to contact Dean, but he’d do anything at this point, anything to convey to Dean that he didn’t mean the words that he said.

“Sorry, I can’t,” Sam says, “We’re in the middle of nowhere. I don’t have any bars.” He rests a sympathetic hand on Cas' shoulder, but when Castiel tenses, he moves back away.

Of course.

When they do reach a location with enough service, Sam does send text messages to Bobby. To Castiel's dismay, Bobby does not answer them. 

They arrive in Sioux Falls in the late morning. Castiel scrambles to exit the car when they pull up behind Bobby’s home. They knock but don’t find him inside to answer, so Sam guides them around to the garage, where a pair of thick legs extends out from underneath a car that looks like it must once have been impressive, but is now faded and rusted.

Bobby says from his place, “Hold your horses. Be with y’all in a second.” He's humming something under his breath, something that sounds like the kind of music that Dean enjoys.

“It’s us,” Sam says, “Where’s Dean? Dind't you get any of my messages?”

“Aw, hell, boy. You know I don't do phone shit when I'm workin',” Bobby says to this. He rolls out from under the car and stands up, wiping grease-stained hands on a handkerchief from his back pocket. He zeroes in on Cas and points a finger at his face, “You. You go fix this, and you fix it now.”

“I know, I –”

“You know, huh?” Bobby spits, “No, you don’t. A certain conversation’s comin’ to mind here, one where I told you – I _told_ you, don’t go lettin’ what happened to you screw up what you and my boy have. Does anybody fuckin’ listen to me, or am I just singin’ to myself here? Go, git. He’s out back by the targets.”

**X**

It’s a little fucking unfair that the weather’s this nice when Dean feels so much like shit. There’s barely a cloud in the blue sky above him, and the temperature is snug right between warm and cool. A breeze rustles his borrowed flannel, and he exhales a long cloud of cigarette smoke. He knows Bobby told him he wasn’t allowed to drink, but as soon as Bobby ducked out to the garage, Dean snagged the whiskey in the cupboard that he had his eye on.

Figures after all his hard work, he’d be right back here – in the plot of land behind the salvage yard, drinking and smoking like he always has.

No matter what he does, he’ll always end up like this. Coming up short, fucking it up, pouring whiskey down his throat so he doesn’t have to think about how fucking miserable he is.

The crunch of footsteps through the prickly field brush, slow and hesitant, sounds out over the slosh of the whiskey being tipped back down Dean’s throat.

“Told you to leave me be, Bobby,” Dean says, and expects to get another smack for fingering the bottle of whiskey.

“I am not Bobby.”

Dean jerks his head at that. His lips part in surprise and he can only get out, “Cas?”

“Yes,” Cas says.

Dean realizes that Cas is walking without a prosthetic, struggling for balance with nothing but a cane to support him. He walks slowly, but Dean knows that Cas would be pissed if he stood up to help him – he’d scold him for treating him like he’s helpless. So he waits, and lets Cas crumple to the ground beside him, falling onto his one knee and using his cane as leverage to shift so that he’s lying in the prickly weeds and dirt, just like Dean.

“Why’re you here?” Dean finally asks.

“I made a mistake,” Castiel responds, “I think it may actually be the worst mistake that I’ve ever made in my life. Could I have one of those?” He indicates to the cigarette between the knuckles on Dean’s right hand.

Dean nods and offers a cigarette and a light to Cas, who holds the flame to the end and exhales.

“Was it me?” Dean asks when Cas hands his lighter back, “Your mistake, I mean.”

“No,” Cas says, “God, no, Dean. I’m ashamed that I could ever make you think something like that. My mistake was – it was treating you the way that I did. Throughout all the time I’ve known you, I’ve been so angry at the way others treat you, and…and the way that you treat yourself. And then I turned and did the same as the others I’d been so angry at.”

“Uh,” Dean says, “Okay. But you weren’t wrong, so.”

“That’s just it, though. I was. I was so wrong to say that anything was your fault,” Cas responds. He takes another drag off of the end of his cigarette, and sends a cloud of smoke up into the air, “I’m not well, Dean. We both know that. I’d been improving but God knows I’ll never be the same as I was before Paktika. I close my eyes and I - I see the faces of the dead. I see Samandriel and I see that man that blew himself up. I’d like to pretend that I’m normal, that I could be – but what if I never get there?”

Dean chuckles, an unhappy, soft sound, and replies, “Christ, do I know that feeling. 'Cept for me it's leather belts. That fuckin' pickup when I was fifteen. Never wanted anybody to know that crap, but. The whole world does.” A sardonic smile curls his lips.

“I shouldn't have - I should not have said what I did about Alastair, Dean. It was," he gulps in air and sighs, "it was cruel of me. Neither of us…well, we have histories,” Cas says. He looks at Dean as he says this, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say that Cas is actually leaning into him, “But, if you’d still have me…I want to try. I want to try being unwell together.”

Dean stares. When he finally finds the words to say, he sputters, “Cas, that isn’t fucking funny.”

“I was unaware that I was trying to be humorous,” Castiel replies.

“Um,” Dean says, “Oh.”

Cas deflates. He exhales cigarette smoke, and when he looks back at Dean he looks like a puppy that’s been abandoned out in the street in a cardboard box. He ventures, “Is that a no?”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean exclaims, “No it’s not a fucking no. But what if – what if we fuck it all up? We do a lot of fucking up.”

“I’d rather try and fuck up then not try at all,” Cas admits, "And who wake me up from my nightmares if not you? Gabriel doesn't know the tune to Hey Jude, you know."

Dean stubs out his cigarette butt in the dirt and stretches up into a sitting position. More than anything, he wants to say yes to Cas, to give what they have another go, but he doesn’t think he could handle another round through the wringer. There's only so much a guy can take, and sometimes...sometimes he just feels like he was meant to be alone.

“May I kiss you?” Cas asks. He’s so goddamn soft-spoken when he says it.

Dean can’t help but swallow and answer, “Yeah. Go ahead and kiss me, angel.”

When he says the word ‘angel’ he knows he’s forgiven Cas. And Cas pulls him down and their mouths connect, he knows he’s going to tell Cas that he’s willing give their thing another go. And then when their tongues touch and taste, he knows he’s gonna want to do this forever. He’s gonna want to kiss Cas like this for the rest of their lives.

They break for air, and Cas says, “You told me you love me. I saw it on the television. Was it true?”

“Of course it was true, you dick,” Dean replies, and then adds, “Guess I should probably say it when you can hear me, huh?” He cups Cas' stubbly cheek with his hand. His beard is overgrown from days without shaving spent in a hospital bed. Dean strokes his thumb through the coarse hair and tries not to acklowledge the well of affection that bubbles up from deep in his gut. Goddamn handsome son of a bitch, with his blue-as-hell eyes that crease at the corners, his tanned skin, and that awkward, crooked smile. It's a vulnerable smile, so fragile Dean imagines it would take very few words to break it.

“I imagine so, yes,” Cas replies.

“Then I love you,” Dean says, “And I gotta tell you, angel, I don’t know what to do with that. I love you more than I ever loved anything before, and it freaks me the hell out. The things you do to me…” He makes a vague motion in the air with his hand.

Cas having that much power over him – it’s fucking scary, okay? He didn’t know that one night in September that he’d approach a sullen-looking john or that he’d see the guy the next morning when he treated himself to a decent breakfast. He didn’t know that they’d watch Batman and Star Trek together, or read scifi novels together, or get an apartment together. He didn’t know that that man would give him a home.

He didn’t know he’d fall stupidly, against all better judgment, in love with the guy.

He wants to regret it. He wants to say that he regrets it all and that he was better off living his life on his own.

But he was never better on his own, and he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“I love you too, Dean,” Cas tells him, a small smile playing on his lips. Dean leans down and kisses that smile right off of Cas’ face.

Yeah.

Dean doesn’t regret a goddamn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Here it is, you guys, the end of my first adventure in Destiel chapter fic. I want to thank everybody that dropped by to read, leave comments and kudos, and bookmark. You guys mean a lot to me, and I hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> My next fic journey is a high school AU that I have already started -- I posted the first chapter a while back and hopefully will get the second up sometime this weekend.
> 
> There will also eventually be some timestamps in this same 'verse.
> 
> You can all find my SPN blog at scarlettofletters.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thank you again, and I hope you stick around for future fics!


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